anxb 
NH 
111 
■ P61 
1908 
v.l 


£ing  me  a song  of  HeKansas ! 

Cell  it  euecy  bit,  fcom  its  hrooh 
£ide  mosses  to  the  tinge  of  leaf  and 

Che  scent  of  Joam. 


Che  mocKina  hied  sano  'eound 
Che  cahiti  home 

and  the  gaeden  path  tuheee  the 
Red  rose  tosses. 


i 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 
Getty  Research  Institute 


https://archive.org/details/picturespoemsofa01babc 


Pictures  and  Poems 
of  Arkansas 


Compiled  by 

Mrs.  BERNIE  BABCOCK  and 
O.  C.  LUDWIG 


W ith  Seventy  Illustrations 

BY 

Arkansas  Photographers 


VOLUME  I. 


SKETCH  BOOK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Makers  of  The  Arkansas  Sketch  Book 

Little  Rock,  Ark. 


COPYRIGHT  1908 
BY 

The  Sketch  Book  Publishing 

COM  PANY 


Press  of 

A.  N.  Kellogg  Newspaper  Company 
Printers  - Engravers  - Binders 
Little  Rock,  Ark. 


THE  GETTY  CEWTO 
LIBRARY 


ARKANSAS  MADONNA 


Pose  by  mother  and  child  whose  home  is  at  the  famous 
Hot  Springs  of  Arkansas 


AMMOQAM  ZAWlAXftA 


copyright  t&OS 


jorafii  srfj  Ik  si  dmoffY9eodw  blifb  boB  isHtom  vd:  dgQ^f 

t h 4 3-etch.  Book  pubushiho  ' t . 

asan&hA  )o  a§nhq8  )oH 


‘‘4«wspap<rr  C 


Tigr  avers  * 


\ 


HERE’S  TO 


ARKANSAS 


Land  of  corn  and  cotton 
Best  you  ever  saw — 

Ne’er  to  be  forgotten, 

Grand  old  Arkansas! 

Land  of  mellow  peaches, 

Land  of  golden  wheat; 

’Tis  experience  teaches. 

Mighty  hard  to  beat. 

Land  of  reddest  cherries, 

Apples,  pears  and  plums, 

Land  of  endless  berries — 

To  the  front  she  comes. 

Blessings  rest  upon  us, 

Love  from  all  the  girls! 

Hail  the  land  of  promise, 

Hail  the  land  of  pearls! 

Land  of  peace  and  plenty 
Liberty  and  law; 

Ain’t  one  state  in  twenty 
Beats  old  Arkansas. 

Sidney  Warren  Mase. 


GREETING 


N presenting  this  little  volume  of  poems  and  pictures  to 
the  public  it  may  be  proper  to  say  the  compilers  do 
not  claim  they  have  included  all  the  best  things  that  have 
been  written  of  a poetical  nature  by  Arkansas  people,  nor 
that  other  pictures  of  our  home  life  and  our  common 
country  would  not  illustrate  as  well  the  beauty  of  our  scenery  and  the 
type  of  our  citizenship.  If  this  volume  is  a success,  then  at  a later 
period  there  will  be  other  volumes,  so  that  in  the  end  we  may  give  to 
the  world  all  of  the  best  there  is  in  the  artistic  storehouses  of  our 
beloved  State.  What  we  give  today  may  serve  as  an  inspiration  to 
those  who  delight  to  give  support  to  poetry  and  art,  and  may  start 
a rivalry  revealing  to  the  world  in  beautiful  language  and  pictures  much 
of  the  charm  and  glory  of  Arkansas.  Y ear  after  year  we  pay  tribute 
to  the  genius  of  those  dwelling  in  other  lands,  and  it  is  right  that  we 
should  do  so,  for  it  means  the  advancing  of  ideals  of  beauty  and  the 
uplifting  of  the  human  mind  to  loftier  planes,  but  let  us  not  forget 
the  modest  singers  and  the  picture  makers  of  our  own  dear  State.  They 
are  worthy  of  a kind  word  of  encouragement,  and  you  will  express 
your  appreciation  of  their  efforts  if  this  book  finds  a resting  place  in 
the  library  of  every  home  in  Arkansas. 


FOREWORD 


T has  been  no  easy  matter  to  select  from  the  large  number 
of  available  Pictures  and  Poems  of  Arkansas,  the  limited 
collection  which  appears  in  this  little  volume.  Some  of 
the  poems  have  been  selected  from  the  published  works  of 
their  respective  authors.  Among  such  are  Fay  Hemp- 
stead, author  of  “Hempstead’s  History  of  Arkansas;” 
George  B.  Rose,  whose  “Renaissance  Masters”  has  had  wide  and  popu- 
lar recognition;  Mrs.  Josie  Frazee  Cappleman,  one  of  the  best  known 
of  Southern  writers  through  her  popular  contributions  and  her  first  volume 
of  “Heart  Songs;”  T.  Elmore  Lucey,  whose  little  volume  “Through 
Prairie  Meadows”  is  alone  sufficient  to  establish  his  reputation  as  a poet; 
Alice  France,  whose  recently  published  volume,  “Sung  in  the  Shadows,” 
is  being  well  received;  George  Fleming  Chapline,  author  of  “A  Bunch 
of  Gras?,”  and  Mrs.  Athalia  A.  J.  Irwin  of  “A  Bouquet  of  Verse.”  To 
these  and  the  many  other  writers  and  the  artists  whose  work  is  given 
herewith,  the  compilers  express  their  appreciation  and  thanks,  with  the 
hope  that  its  reception  may  be  sufficiently  cordial  to  invite  many  other 
volumes  tending  toward  the  development  of  a yet  better  and  more 
extensive  appreciation  of  Arkansas  literature  and  art. 


Harris. 


A Southland  Song — Hempstead 13 

At  Eventide — Antrobus 31 

A Prayer — Babcock 25 

An  Arkansas  Autumn — Howard 70 

A Fancy — Patterson 82 

An  Arkansas  Enchantress — Ludwig 87 

Arkansas — Stockard  113 

A Prayer — Hyde 119 

Arkansas  Hymn — Millar 123 

Arkansas — Landis  139 

An  Arkansas  Fantasy — Ellis 160 

Child-heart  Land — Lucey 129 

Dixie — Vaughan  47 

Dream  of  Old  Saline — Chase 101 

Daddy’s  Little  Menagerie — Ludwig 131 

Dear  Brown  Eyes — Ludwig 77 

Every  Year — Pike 14 

Easter  Lilies — Allen 103 

Forget-Me-Not — Ludwig  53 

Good-Bye  Kiss  on  the  Stairs — Ludwig 157 

Hope — Nelson  39 

Her  Letter — Ludwig 137 

Hot  Springs  Fifty  Years  Ago 147 

I Should  Be  Satisfied — Cappleman Ill 

I Choose  You — Babcock 117 

If  I Had  Been — Ludwig 135 

Jealousy  153 

Life — Cappleman  24 

Legend  of  Dardanelle  Rock — Noxon 84 

Love’s  Lesson — Gunder 89 

My  Own  Loved  Arkansas — Millar 17 

My  Little  World — Fagan 19 

Motifs  for  the  Morbid — Lucey 21 

My  Southern  Queen — Garrett 49 

Margaret — Babcock  55 

November  in  the  South — Blackburn 43 

New  South  Womanhood — Cappleman 45 

Nothing  Goes  Hard  With  Me — Cappleman 99 

Old  Confederate  Soldier — Ludwig 41 


3ftt&p;x — (Emtitmteb 


m 

O’Possum  Time — Lucey 57 

Old  State  House — Allen 81 

On  the  Death  of  a Young  Lady — Rose 116 

On  Gleyre’s  Picture  of  the  Lost  Illusions — Rose 121 

On  the  Bay  of  Naples — Rose 126 

Prayer — Chapline  143 

Retrospection — Ludwig  109 

Slumber  Song — Babcock  59 

Song  of  the  Arkansas — Mourning 75 

Sigh  Softly — Babcock  79 

Sextennial — Hempstead  95 

Show  Your  Colors — Irwin 110 

Sun  Caressed  Prairies  of  Arkansas — Babcock 115 

Sonnett — Allen  122 

Sincerity — France  133 

Silver  Anchors — Babcock  135 

Since  We  Struck  Ile — Fagan 141 

Sing  and  Be  Glad — Ludwig 145 

Serenade — Brooks  152 

The  Old-Time  Darkey — Cappleman 27 

Thanksgiving — Ludwig  33 

To  A Watcher — Allen 35 

The  Night  That  Mother  Died — Cappleman 40 

The  Ideal — Lucey 51 

To  the  Mocking  Bird — Pike 60 

The  Living  Room — Babcock 63 

To  Miss  H As  Cleopatra — Rose 65 

The  Mistaken  Love — France 67 

The  Maid  of  the  Mountains — Dunaway 69 

The  Winter  Girl 73 

The  Pine  and  the  Vine — Rose 80 

To  A Rose — Chapline 91 

The  Singer — Lucey 93 

The  Jew — Babcock 104 

The  Dead  Child — Pike 125 

Two  Courier’s — Babcock  132 

Toast  to  the  Arkansaw  Traveler — Babcock 142 

To  Man — France... 142 

The  Dying  Drummer  of  Fort  Smith — Skidway 151 

Venice — Rose  37 

Via  Crucis — Blackburn 83 

When  You  and  I Were  Young — Ludwig 23 

War  Eagle — Stockard 52 

Will  You  Remember  Me — Blackburn 66 

Where  Do  Kisses  Grow — Cappleman 71 

When  My  Ship  Comes  In — Mase 107 

When  We  Are  Gone — -Tolbert 159 

Yvonne — Payne  97 


ARKANSAS  BLACKS 


Miss  Harris. 


‘Here  Gracious  Seasons  Gently  Flow. 


Miller. 


12 


A SOUTHLAND  SONG 


0 land  for  which  our  Fathers  died. 

Land  dearer  than  all  else  beside; 

Thy  praise  shall  men  forever  sing. 

Where  Fame  and  Truth  their  tribute  bring. 

Thy  fate  be  mine.  What’er  betide 

1 with  thee  evermore  abide. 

Clime  of  the  South,  o’er  land  and  sea 
My  heart  is  thine  where’er  I be. 

Fair  are  thy  vales;  and  sweetest  flowers 
Bedeck  with  wealth  thy  forest  bowers. 

Here  blandly  smile  the  days  among 
The  gifts  by  generous  Fortune  flung. 

Thy  maids  as  fair;  thy  sons  as  brave, 

As  ever  kindly  Nature  gave. 

Southland,  such  is  my  love  for  thee, 

My  heart  is  thine  where’er  I be. 

Here  gracious  seasons  gently  flow, 

Bright  skies  of  deepest  hue  below; 

And  Thrift,  from  every  dale  and  hill. 

With  plenty  doth  thy  garners  fill. 

Here  balmy  airs  from  Summer  blown. 

Like  days  of  Eden  make  thine  own. 

Land  of  the  South,  peace  be  with  thee! 

My  heart  is  thine  where’er  I be. 

— Fay  Hempstead. 


13 


^ ^ 


“EVERY  YEAR 


Life  is  a count  of  loses, 

Every  year; 

For  the  weak  are  heavier  crosses 
Every  year; 

Lost  Springs  with  sobs  replying 
Unto  weary  Autumn’s  sighing 
While  those  we  love  are  dying, 

Every  year. 

The  days  have  less  of  gladness. 

Every  year; 

The  nights  more  weight  of  sadness 
Every  year; 

Fair  Springs  no  longer  charm  us. 

The  winds  and  weather  harm  us 
The  threats  of  death  alarm  us 
Every  year. 

There  come  new  cares  and  sorrows. 
Every  year; 

Dark  days  and  darker  morrows. 

Every  year; 

The  ghosts  of  dead  loves  haunt  us. 

The  ghosts  of  changed  friends  taunt  us 
And  disappointments  daunt  us 
Every  year. 

To  the  Past  go  more  dead  faces, 

Every  year; 

As  the  loved  leave  vacant  places 
Every  year; 

Everywhere  the  sad  eyes  meet  Us, 

In  the  evening’s  dusk  they  greet  us 
And  to  come  to  them  entreat  us. 

Every  year. 


14 


“You  are  growing  old,’’  they  tell  us 
Every  year; 

“You  are  more  alone,’’  they  tell  us 
Every  year; 

You  can  win  no  new  affection, 

You  have  only  recollection. 

Deeper  sorrow  and  dejection 
Every  year. 

Too  true!  Life’s  shores  are  shifting 
Every  year; 

And  we  are  seaward  drifting 
Every  year; 

Old  places,  changing,  fret  us, 

The  living  more  forget  us 

There  are  fewer  to  forget  us 
Every  year. 

But  the  truer  life  draws  nigher 
Every  year; 

And  its  morning-star  climbs  higher, 
Every  year; 

Earth’s  hold  on  us  grows  slighter, 

And  the  heavenly  burden  lighter 

And  the  Dawn  Immortal  brighter, 
Every  year. 


— Albert  Pz'^e. 


15 


I we  i' 


‘Going’ 


“Going” 

ON  LEAVING  ARKANSAS 


‘Gone’ 


Roberts. 


16 


MY  OWN  LOVED  ARKANSAS 

Land  of  the  verdant  valley, 

Land  of  the  rock-ribbed  hill, 

Land  of  the  rushing  river. 

Land  of  the  rippling  rill; 

Land  of  the  softest  breezes. 

Land  of  the  bluest  skies, 

Land  of  the  silver  moonlight — 

Land  that  I love  and  prize — 
The  fairest  land  sun  ever  saw, 

My  own,  my  own,  my  Arkansas, 
My  Arkansas,  my  Arkansas, 

My  own  loved  Arkansas. 

Land  of  the  blushing  roses. 

Land  of  the  stately  pine. 

Land  of  the  solemn  cypress. 

Land  of  the  clinging  vine; 

Land  of  the  fleecy  cotton, 

Land  of  the  golden  corn, 

Land  of  the  peach  and  apple. 

Land  of  the  fabled  horn — 

The  richest  land  man  ever  saw. 

My  own,  my  own,  my  Arkansas. 

Land  of  the  nut  and  honey. 

Land  of  the  ’possum  pie, 

Land  of  the  watermelon. 

Land  of  the  hot  fish-fry; 

Land  of  the  deer  and  turkey. 

Land  of  the  yellow  yam. 

Land  of  the  huckleberry, 

Land  of  the  pone  and  jam — 

The  fattest  land  you  ever  saw, 

My  own,  my  own,  my  Arkansas. 


17 


Land  of  the  cozy  cottage, 

Land  of  the  happy  home, 

Land  of  the  sacred  hearthstone. 

Land  of  the  Holy  Tome 
Land  of  the  saint  and  soldier, 

Land  of  the  warm  of  heart. 

Land  of  the  loyal  lover, 

Land  of  the  poet’s  art — 

The  sweetest  land  I ever  saw, 

My  own,  my  own,  my  Arkansas. 

Land  of  the  purest  matrons. 

Land  of  the  men  of  brain, 

Land  of  the  loveliest  maidens, 

Land  of  the  sturdy  swain; 

Land  of  romantic  story, 

Land  of  the  holiest  song. 

Land  of  the  true  and  noble. 

Land  of  the  brave  and  strong — 
The  land  of  liberty  and  law, 

My  own,  my  own,  my  Arkansas. 

My  Arkansas,  my  Arkansas. 

My  own  loved  Arkansas. 

We  stand  for  liberty  and  law. 

For  love,  for  home,  for  Arkansas. 


—A.  C.  Millar. 


is 


MY  LITTLE  WORLD 

My  little  world — a street,  my  work,  my  home; 

My  friends  and  those  I love — ’tis  small  indeed; 

The  traveled  ones  speak  of  another  world — 

A wider  and  a fairer  world  than  mine, — 

But  I am  happy  in  my  little  world. 

— C.  L.  Fagan. 


19 


Rayburn. 


“Don’t  Let  Hard  Times  Get  You  Down.” 


Kettering. 


20 


MOTIFS  FOR  THE  MORBID 


If  all  sorrow  you  would  drown 
Laugh  right  out; 

Don’t  let  hard  times  get  you  down — 
Learn  to  shout! 

Tears  will  never  drown  a wrong; 
Scatter  sunbeams  all  along; 

Shame  old  sadness  with  a song — 
Rout  him  out! 

Moping  never  won  a race. 

Keep  your  grit! 

Laugh  right  in  the  cynic’s  face; 

Say  you’re  “it,” 

And  you  11  win  the  world’s  respect; 
Worthless  lives  are  soonest  wrecked 
Rise  above  mere  caste  and  sect — 
Make  a hit! 

Wreathe  your  roses  ere  they  fade — ' 
While  they’re  red; 

Eden’s  flowers  were  never  made 
For  the  dead! 

Let  the  living  feel  the  thrill 
Of  the  rose  and  daffodil 
Help  your  brother  climb  the  hill 
Just  ahead! 

Don’t  be  stingy  with  your  cheer; 

Smile  out  loud! 

Laugh  away  the  skeptic  tear — 

Join  the  crowd! 

Heaven’s  not  so  many  leagues  away, 
But  you  may  hear  the  angels  say: 

“Our  gate’s  the  human  heart  today — 
Not  the  shroud!” 


T.  Elmore  Lucey. 


In  the  Pillared  Shade  of  an  Arkansas  Wood.’ 


WHEN  YOU  AND  I WERE  YOUNG 

Shall  we  forget  the  time,  dear  Joe, 

When  you  and  I were  boys? 

We  hailed  th’  fall  of  the  cheerful  snow 
With  radiant  face  and  noise. 

We  tracked  the  rabbit  to  his  lair 
Across  the  field  of  white. 

And  jerked  him  from  it  by  the  hair. 

His  brown  eyes  wild  with  fright. 

The  wild  ducks  on  the  shallow  pond. 
Where  water  lilies  grew, 

Would  keep  their  sentinels  around, 

But  we  were  hid  from  view. 

And  often  from  our  good  shotgun 
A messenger  would  fly, 

And  there  beneath  the  golden  sun 
Some  fowl  would  quickly  die. 

And  then  at  night  beneath  the  moon, 
Whose  rays  were  lantern-light. 

The  coon  dog  barked  his  happy  tune 
And  filled  us  with  delight. 

We  knew  that  on  the  fruity  limb 
Of  some  wild  ’simmon  tree 

His  coonship,  like  a spectre  dim, 

Was  happy  as  could  be. 

We  shook  him  out,  and  on  the  ground 
They  wallowed  to  and  fro, 

First  here,  next  there,  and  then  we  found 
A dead  coon  in  the  snow. 

On  Christmas  eve  our  old  wool  socks 
By  chimney  side  we’d  store; 

Beneath  a quilt  our  shaggy  locks 
Soon  mingled  with  our  snore. 


23 


And  sometime  from  without,  a sound 
Would  ’rouse  us  from  our  sleep, 

And  we  would  slide  the  cover  ’round 
And  slyly  take  a peep. 

And  then  upon  the  Christmas  morn, 

At  dawn’s  first  timid  crack, 

We’d  find  an  amber-painted  horn 
And  loose-limbed  jumping  jack. 

We’d  find  some  horse-shaped  ginger  bread, 

Perhaps,  a barlow  knife; 

And  candy,  almost  always  red — 

Great  God,  but  that  was  life! 

It  seems  to  me  that  in  these  days 
We  don’t  have  half  the  joys. 

And  people  too,  have  changed  their  ways, 

Since  you  and  I were  boys. 

- — O.  C.  Ludwig. 


33- 

LIFE 

This  life  is  a but  a checkered  span 

Of  days,  and  months,  and  years, 

And  some  are  stamped  with  sweetest  joys 
While  some  are  stained  with  tears. 

But  do  not  think  the  grief  is  more 
And  that  the  joys  are  few; 

For,  when  the  worth  of  each  is  weighed 
The  best  will  be  for  you. 

Then,  look  ye  all  beyond  the  gloom 
Wherever  shines  the  sun, 

And  Hope  and  Love  will  lighten  life 
Till  joy  immortal’s  won. 

— Josie  F razee  Cappleman. 


24 


A PRAYER 


The  years  have  been  so  short — and  yet  so  long — 

So  long — 

Since  women,  laughter,  wine  and  mocking  song 

Have  made  the  cup  of  pleasure  ’round  the  rim  so  sweet 
The  dregs  so  bitter — and  the  wreckage  so  complete. 

Forgive,  forgive  the  waste — my  wicked  ways 
And  make  me  fit  to  pray  as  in  past,  hallowed  days — 

Now  I lay  me  down  to  sleep 
I pray  Thee  Lord  my  soul  to  keep 
If  I should  die  before  I wake 
I pray  Thee  Lord  my  soul  to  take. 


This  prayer  I pray 
For  her  dear  sake 
Who  loves  me. 

Amen. 


— Bernie  Babcock. 


25 


Rayburn. 


a o 


UNCLE” 


Eckler. 


26 


THE  OLD  TIME  DARKY 


They  are  going  fast,  they’re  going, 
From  the  old-time  cabin  door. 

And  the  places  now  that  know  them, 
Will  know  them,  soon,  no  more; 

Aye,  the  “Uncle,”  and  the  “Aunty” 
With  the  bygones  soon  will  be. 

And  no  more  of  “Mars”  and  “Missus” 
Will  there  come  to  you  and  me. 

No  more  the  crooning  “Mammy,” 

Softly  swaying  to  and  fro ; 

With  her  love,  unchanged,  enduring. 
Will  the  Southland’s  wee  ones  know. 
No  more  that  careless  sing-song, 

In  measure  quaint  and  droll. 

Will  o’erflow  from  hearts  so  happy 
Till  of  music  seemed  each  soul. 

No  more  that  admiration 

And  that  darkey-pride,  so  great. 

In  all  the  fleecy  acres 

Of  his  master’s  vast  estate; 

No  more  that  fond  affection 
For  the  household  on  the  hill; 

For  the  trusty,  old-time  darkey 
Had  no  equal  and  ne’er  will. 

No  more  that  joy,  the  wildest 
That  a rustic  race  e’er  knew, 

When  the  Christmas  feasts  were  ready 
And  that  day  no  work  to  do; 

Or,  the  marriage  of  “Young  Missus” 
To  some  magnate  of  the  land. 

When  the  darkey  shared  the  glory 
Of  the  bravest  of  that  band. 


§>  O 


MAMMY” 


2S 


No  more  that  grief,  profoundest. 

When  “Old  Mars”  or  “Missus”  died. 

Or  the  baby  from  the  “big  house,” 

Was  lowered  by  their  side; 

For  the  darkly  mourned  as  truly 
For  the  Master  and  his  kind, 

As  the  faithful  in  the  annals 
Of  grief,  we  ever  find. 

And  to  me  one  old  “Black  Aunty” 

Still  is  spared — tho’  brief  her  days, 

And  I oft  in  silence,  wonder 

At  her  dear  old  darkey  ways; 

Still,  when  sickness  comes,  or  sorrow. 

Other  friends  may  faint  and  fall. 

But  “Black  Mammy”  never  falters — 

She  is  faithful  thro’  it  all. 

With  a heart  surcharged  with  sorrow. 

Do  I watch  them  pass  away. 

For  the  Old  South  with  them  endeth. 

And  the  New  assumes  its  sway— 

With  the  passing  of  the  darkey. 

Of  that  good,  old  golden  time. 

So  passeth  out  for  ever 

That  fair  epoch  of  our  clime. 

— -Josie  Frazee  Cappleman. 


29 


30 


When  the  Cattle  are  all  Coming  Homeward. ** 


AT  EVENTIDE 


When  the  shadows  grow  long  in  the  evening 
And  the  echoes  float  over  the  fields, 

When  the  cattle  are  all  coming  homeward, 

And  the  daylight  to  darkness  slow  yields, 

It  is  then  I love  to  walk  slowly, 

Alone  down  the  path  in  the  wood. 

And  list  to  the  echoes  of  mem’ry, 

That  rush  o’er  my  soul,  like  a flood. 

I am  bowed  like  a reed  in  the  current, 

Then  borne  like  a leaf  on  the  wave, 

Plunged  deep  in  the  clamorous  billows, 

Left  to  rest  in  a sheltering  cave. 

The  past  of  my  life  is  lived  over; 

Each  echo  has  voices  I’ve  known. 

Each  shadow  has  forms  that  are  lovely. 

Each  scene  is  of  something  that’s  gone. 

— B.  E.  Antrobus. 


31 


“Beyond  the  Shadows  of  the  Grave.” 


Roberts. 


32 


THANKSGIVING 

O swift  the  yearly  cycles  run 

And  scatter  thorns  along  the  way. 

With  here  and  there  a blossom  gay 
Whose  charming  bloom  the  loving  sun 
Has  shed  its  genial  rays  upon. 

We  feel  the  thorns;  they  sting  us  so 

And  leave  a wound  that  slowly  heals. 

And  as  we  brood  there  slowly  steals 
Rebellious  thoughts  that  come  and  go 
Athwart  our  hearts  with  fever  glow. 

Too  oft  we  fail  to  pause  and  bless 

The  things  that  light  our  groping  way. 

Too  rarely  stop  and  humbly  pray; 

It  is  not  that  we  love  Thee  less. 

We  mostly  sin  through  carelessness. 

We  should  give  thanks  for  wind  and  wave. 

The  scented  blossoms  and  the  trees. 

For  health  and  all  our  hours  of  ease 
And  for  that  life  our  spirits  crave 
Beyond  the  shadows  of  the  grave. 

— O.  C.  Ludwig. 


33 


Harris. 


34 


TO  A WATCHER 


Good  night,  good  night,  the  evening  shadows  gather. 
They  settle  frowning  down,  on  vale  and  hill, 

And  wrapped  in  silence,  canopied  by  darkness, 

The  busy  world  grows  still. 

The  flowers  swing  this  incense — laden  censors. 

Freighting  with  odors  every  whispering  breeze 
That  stirs  as  with  a pulse  of  rhythmic  measure. 

The  listening  forest  trees. 

The  brooklet  dreams  upon  its  couch  of  pebbles, 

The  tender  fern  lies  mirrored  in  its  tide, 

And  there  the  harebell  droops  in  dewy  clusters. 

And  modest  violets  hide. 

And  see — the  moon  slow  rising  in  its  glory. 

Tinges  with  palest  gold  the  azure  sky; 

While  moving  on  each  in  appointed  orbit, 

The  starry  hosts  sweep  by. 

In  march  of  centuries,  still,  sublime  and  solemn, 

Changeless  thro’  cycles  of  unresting  years. 

They  still  keep  time  in  vast,  unbroken  column. 

To  music  of  the  spheres. 

Good  night — the  love  of  Him  who  sleepeth  never. 

Who  guides  the  planets,  parts  the  sea  from  shore; 

Be  with  you  thro’  the  gloom  of  midnight  watches. 

And  keep  you  evermore. 

— Mrs.  S.  R.  Allen. 


35 


“From  Bright  Pagan  Days  is  Thy  Spirit  Descended.’ 


Harris. 


3G 


VENICE 


Beautiful  Venice!  Thou  queen  of  the  ocean! 

Floating  upon  the  blue  Adrian  wave. 

Round  thee  the  waters  with  humble  devotion 
Gather,  thy  feet  with  their  kisses  to  lave. 

Like  a true  queen  in  thy  beauty  thou  reignest, 

Fairest  of  all  of  the  cities  of  earth, 

And  with  thy  charms  every  heart  thou  enchainest, 

Wooing  the  soul  to  repose  and  to  mirth. 

Thou’rt  the  dwelling  of  love  and  of  pleasure. 

Where  Venus  her  gentle  dominion  maintains; 

Where  the  Graces  still  dance  to  voluptuous  measure. 

And  music  is  heard  in  the  richest  of  strains. 

From  bright  pagan  days  is  thy  spirit  descended 
When  men  tasted  pleasure  unconscious  of  guilt. 

And  feared  not  that  heaven  by  joy  was  offended. 

But  danced  in  the  shrines  to  fair  goddesses  built. 

By  thy  watery  walls  from  invasion  protected. 

Thou  hast  watched  from  afar  the  barbarian’s  path; 

To  the  rule  of  stern  priests  thou  wert  never  subjected. 

Nor  hast  trembled  before  the  pontificial  wrath. 

When  around  thee  men  cowered  in  sadness  and  terror, 
Believing  the  torments  of  hell  would  be  poured, 

On  their  heads  if  through  pleasure  they  fell  into  error, 
Venus  by  thee  was  with  Mary  adored. 

With  a beauty  that  rivaled  Praxiteles’  wonder 

She  awoke  to  new  raptures  at  Titian’s  command, 

And  bursting  the  fetters  that  bound  her  asunder, 

She  ruled  in  her  glory  as  queen  of  the  land. 

And  now  on  the  gondola’s  cushions  reclining 

I glide  through  thy  streets  in  the  moon’  silver  light. 

And  it  seems  that  I see  the  fair  Nereids  twining 

Their  locks  of  pale  gold  round  their  bosoms  so  white. 


37 


And  there,  where  the  shadows  of  evening  are  deepest. 

It  seems  that  their  low,  rippling  laughter  I hear. 

And  I wonder  if  still  in  thy  waters  thou  keepest 

Those  mermaids  whose  songs  drew  the  stars  from  their  sphere. 

From  the  dark,  narrow  streets  into  moonlight  emerging, 

The  gondolas  issue  as  black  as  the  tomb, 

And  graceful  as  swans  their  silent  course  urging, 

They  pass  from  our  sight,  and  are  lost  in  the  gloom. 

On  the  still  air  of  evening  soft  music  is  floating 
Like  the  strains  that  are  heard  on  Elysium’s  shore, 

Like  the  songs  of  the  passionate  goddesses  doting 
On  the  heroes  they  loved  in  the  great  days  of  yore. 

Around  all  is  calm,  and  the  world  seems  enchanted 
As  bound  by  some  subtle,  mysterious  charm, 

And  a foretaste  of  heaven  to  mortals  is  granted. 

So  tortured  by  sorrow,  so  vexed  with  alarm. 

How  sweet  would  life  be  on  thy  sparkling  blue  waters. 

And  dreaming  the  dreams  of  voluptuous  ease, 

Caressed  by  the  music  of  ocean’s  fair  daughters. 

Which  like  perfume  is  borne  on  the  cool  evening  breeze. 

But  sweetest  of  pleasures  are  ever  most  fleeting, 

And  leave  a regret  to  endure  evermore; 

So  adieu  to  thee,  Venice,  accept  my  sad  greeting. 

As  I pass  from  thy  waves  to  the  Adrian  shore. 

Farewell  to  thee,  Venice,  thou  city  adorning 
The  earth  with  thy  beauty  and  wooing  to  rest; 

Thou  fadest  away  like  a vision  of  morning. 

Like  a dream  of  the  city  dwelt  in  by  the  blest. 

— George  B.  Rose . 


38 


“As  the  Rippling  River’s  Flow.’’ 


HOPE 

What  a pleasant  thought  to  cherish  as  the  seasons  come  and  go, 

As  the  dormant  meadows  blossom  and  the  rippling  rivers  flow; 

As  the  chilling  blasts  of  winter  and  the  frigid,  driving  sleet. 

Dispels  the  cheerful  sunshine  and  the  summer  roses  sweet! 

What  a blessed  contemplation  as  Nature  shifts  the  scene. 

And  the  dreary  past  is  hidden  by  the  mystic  veil  between! 

What  a blessed  Hope  to  cherish  as  we  look  beyond  the  plain; 

As  we  lift  our  tottering  banner  to  heights  we  would  attain; 

As  we  bear  our  heavy  burdens  with  footsteps  soft  and  slow — 

That  all  our  cares  are  over  and  our  sorrows  are  no  more ! 

What  a blessed  Hope  to  waft  us  o’er  threat’ning  billows  high. 
And  at  last  to  land  us  safely  in  the  land  beyond  the  sky ! 

— Rufus  J.  Nelson. 


39 


THE  NIGHT  THAT  MOTHER  DIED 

The  night  that  mother  died — 

The  world  seemed  bare  and  bleak  and  wide; 

The  light  that  long  had  shone  for  me 
All  sudden’  paled — then  ceased  to  be: 

The  last  great  throb  of  mother-love 
Bore  her  sweet  soul  to  souls  above, 

And  all  the  tender,  pitying  care 
Of  patient  years,  lay  shrouded  there. 

The  night  that  mother  died — 

It  seemed  the  very  oak-trees  sighed; 

The  flowers  she  ever  loved  so  well, 

Held  less  of  fragrance  in  their  spell; 

The  picture-faces,  in  the  room, 

Seemed  wrapt  in  speechless  grief  and  gloom; 
Half-turned  from  sight  her  great  arm-chair 
Seemed  saddest  of  the  sad  things  there. 

The  night  that  mother  died — 

The  pearly  portals  opened  wide: — 

And  is  she  watching  over  there 
The  hearts  behind  with  mother-care? 

If  so — I’m  sure  she’ll  gently  guide 
Each  dear  one  to  the  Other  Side, 

Where  she  doth  loving  understand 
The  aches  and  heart-breaks  of  this  land 
And  where,  as  each  child  reacheth  rest, 

She  still,  of  friends,  will  be  the  best. 

— Josie  F razee  Cappleman. 


40 


CONFEDERATE  MONUMENT 


Erected  by  the  State  of  Arkansas,  Confederate  Veterans 
and  Daughters  of  the  Confederacy,  on  new 
State  House  grounds.  Little  Rock 


THE  NIGHT  THAT  MOTHER  DIED 


The  night  that  mother  died — 

The  world  seemed  bare  and  bleak  and  wide; 
The  light  that  long  had  shone  for  me 
All  sudden’  paled — then  ceased  to  be: 

I he  last  great  throb  of  mother-love 
Bore  her  sweet  soul  to  souls  above. 

And  all  the  tender,  pitying  care 
Of  patient  years,  lay  shrouded  there. 


TH3MUHOM  3TA33a33WOO 

The  night  that  mother  died™ 


It  seemed  the  very  oak-trees'  sighed ; 

1 he  flowery  she  Ayer  loved 

nfie^^bs^fiQ^^ok  "wstofeiwCl  bn* 


3 fit  v.d  bdto©i3 


jboR  3k»i4  g adtoHd a^tSm ; 

Half-turned’ from  sight  her  great  arm-chair 
Seemed  saddest  of  the  sad  things  there. 


The  night  that  mother  died — 

The  pearly  portals  opened  wide: — 

And  is  she  watching  over  there 
1 he  hearts  behind  with  mother-care  7 
If  so — I’m  sure  she’ll  gently  guide 
Each  dear  one  to  the  Other  Side, 

Where  -i  doth  loving  understand 
I he  aches  and  heart-breaks  of  this  land 
And  where,  as  each  child  reacheth  rest. 

She  still,  of  friends,  will  be  the  best. 


— Josie  F razee  Lap  pieman* 


THE  OLD  CONFEDERATE  SOLDIER 


Y ou  served  your  country  faithfully, 

And  fought  its  battles  well, 

Nor  feared  the  thrust  of  bayonet. 

Nor  flinched  from  noise  of  shell; 

You  stood  where  shot  fell  thickest, 

Where  smoke  obscured  the  field. 

Where  men  fell  sorely  wounded, 

And  died,  yet  would  not  yield. 

You  marched  behind  a tattered  flag, 

While  Hope  was  drooping  low: 

Clad  in  a Southern  homespun  rag, 

You  faced  the  Northern  foe; 

And  some  in  shallow  trenches  lie, 

And  some  have  empty  sleeves, 

And  some  have  since  gone  to  the  sky, 

While  loyal  Southland  grieves. 

You  gained  a wide,  immortal  fame, 

You  won  a hero’s  crown, 

But  time  has  served  to  dim  thy  name. 

And  so  we  turn  you  down; 

Forgotten  be  the  story  that 
We  loved  so  well  to  tell, 

For  younger  men  must  fill  the  place 
Where  you  were  wont  to  dwell. 

Then,  here’s  a long  farewell  to  those 
Who  fought  for  Southern  rights; 

We  bid  adieu  to  warriors  true 
In  all  their  country’s  fights; 

It  matters  not  if  tears  be  shed 
By  those  who  still  remain. 

The  soldier  must  be  set  aside — 

His  record  is  in  vain. 

— O.  C.  Ludwig. 


41 


Cypress  Showers  on  the  Lake’s  Smooth  Breast  its  Foliage.’ 


NOVEMBER  IN  THE  SOUTH 


The  meadow,  serene  and  lazy,  sleeps  away 
The  afternoon,  in  sunshine  soft  with  haze; 

The  cornstalks,  gleaned,  are  bowed  as  if  to  pray 
That  man  had  reaped  them  too  in  harvest  days. 

The  mocking  bird  whose  music,  once  loud,  strong 
Filled  all  the  air  with  trembling  joy,  now  sends 

From  leafless  shrub  wherein  he  sits,  a song 

Subdued  and  sad,  which  with  the  landscape  blends. 

The  brook,  pellucid,  throws  the  sunlight  back 
In  myriad  dimples  from  its  cheerful  face; 

Reeds,  erstwhile  green,  with  frost  tipped  fingers  track 
The  roving  waters  on  their  gleeful  race. 

The  red  and  golden  glory  of  the  wood 

Sends  wakeful  greeting  to  the  drowsy  eye; 

Within,  the  sportsman’s  dog  gives  flush  to  brood 
Of  nut-brown  quail,  that  rise — to  fall  and  die. 

And  with  them  fall  the  leaves,  by  man  not  slain 
But  plucked  by  unseen  hand  of  loitering  breeze, 

And  gently  dropped  to  earth,  to  live  again 

When  summer’s  warmth  shall  quick  the  parent  trees. 

The  cypress  showers  on  the  lake’s  smooth  breast 
Its  foliage;  to  a pale  and  crescent  moon 

It  bows  its  dark-bared  head,  when  in  the  west 
The  sun  has  stooped  to  loose  his  sandal-shoon. 

Then  from  the  chimney-tops  the  bustling  smoke 
Melts  in  the  shadow  of  a day  that’s  gone; 

The  door  latch  clicks,  loved  palms  a bright  face  stroke, 
Warm  lips  meet  lips:  with  night  I stand  alone. 

— Charles  S.  Blackburn. 


43 


“A  Type  She  Is  of  Womanhood.” 


Harris. 


44 


THE  NEW  SOUTH  WOMANHOOD 


A type  she  is  of  womanhood 
Of  Southern  woman,  fair  and  good 
And  gentle  dignity; 

A manner  full  of  grace  and  ease 
And  pretty  woman-ways  that  please 
In  sweet  simplicity. 

A heart  with  constancy  a-tune. 

And  touched  all  tenderly  so  soon 
As  pity  makes  its  plaint; 

A hand  that  softly  doth  enclose 
To  worn  and  weary  in  their  woes 
And  firm  lives  makes  of  faint. 

A character  that  naught  can  quail — 

That’s  strong  and  brave  where  these  avail 
In  judgment,  kind  and  just; 

Whose  life,  as  daily  it  unrolls. 

Bespeaks  one  of  these  peerless  souls 
In  whom  all  hearts  may  trust. 

The  world’s  proud  deeds  within  the  past. 

The  marked  events  that  follow  fast 
For  her  are  frequent  food; 

Refinement,  culture  are  her  share 
And  honored  is  she  everywhere 
This  new  South  womanhood. 

For  such  is  Southern  womanhood 
That’s  fresh  and  fair  and  pure  and  good. 

That’s  strangely  old,  yet  new; 

Such  is,  in  truth,  a type  today 
That’s  with  us,  and  will  be  alway 
So  long  as  truth  is  true. 

— Josie  Frazee  Cappleman. 


45 


46 


DIXIE’ 


DIXIE 


No  other  strain  my  soul  can  fill 
Or  start  the  tears  so  soon. 

My  being’s  deepest  pulses  thrill 
Like  the  sweet  Southern  tune; 

So  sadly  sweet,  I’ll  ne’er  decide 
Whether  pleasure  ’tis  or  pain 
Ne’er  bugle  breathed,  or  cornet  sighed 
A more  impassioned  strain. 

O,  can’st  thou  hear,  and  tamely  stand, 

Dost  not  the  hot  blood  stir? 

’Twould  nerve  e’en  cowards  feeble  brand 
Strong  as  Excalibur! 

It  sounds — we  hear  the  cannon  roar, 

Swift  swords  from  scabbards  fly. 

We  lead  the  gallant  charge;  once  more, 
Our  Southern  flag  streams  high. 

O,  martial  air  that  nerved  our  dead 
It  seems  to  say  to  me 
Those  stirring  strains  your  fathers  led 
To  death,  or  victory. 

And  when  they  rose  above  the  shriek 
Of  battle  fierce  and  wild 
They  fire  dthe  strong,  they  nerved  the  weak 
The  dying  heard  and  smiled. 

Not  France’s  glorious  Marsellaise 
Not  Watch  Song  on  the  Rhine, 

Nor  homesick  Switzer’s  Alpine  lays 
Touch  such  deep  chords  as  thine. 

Say,  Veteran,  who  wore  the  grey. 

And  thrilled  beneath  that  strain. 

Leaps  not  your  heart  the  same  old  way 
When  “Dixie’s”  played  again? 


— Zula  Camille  Vaughan. 


\ 


“Thy  Face  Perhaps  Is  Not  of  One  Most  Fair.” 


Harris. 


4S 


MY  SOUTHERN  QUEEN 


Thy  face,  perhaps,  is  not  of  all  most  fair. 

Nor  was  thy  form  cast  in  the  matchless  mould; 

Thy  step,  not  all  of  grace;  Yet  I behold 
In  thee  a wealth  of  charm  by  far  more  rare: 

A face  with  calm,  sweet  depths,  and  mirrored  there 
A faith  that  questions  not,  nor  will  grow  cold. 

But  with  the  fleeting  years  will  yet  unfold 
In  richer  loveliness;  a bosom  where 
The  quickened  rise  and  fall  are  but  the  tide 
Of  tender  sympathy;  a step  whose  sound 
Thrills  like  the  sweetest  music — these 
Are  charms  that  will  not  fail,  but  will  abide 
For  aye,  and  in  their  fulness  spread  around 
A holy  incense  and  a perfect  peace. 

— Forrest  A.  Garrett. 


49 


“But  It’s  Always  Over  the  Stars.” 


Miss  Harris. 


50 


r 


THE  IDEAL 

The  pholosophers  tell  of  an  infinite  sphere. 

Far,  far  away  from  the  wastes  of  wars, 

Where  the  deathless  dwell,  and  there’s  never  a tear 

And  the  wide  world’s  free  from  the  cynic’s  sneer — 
But,  it’s  always  over  the  stars. 

And  the  poets  sing  of  a stormless  sea, 

And  a barque  unschathed  with  scars; 

A dreamland  with  love-fires  wild  and  free; 

And  never  a jar  or  minor  key — 

But  it’s  always  over  the  stars. 

Why  sing  of  a realm  that  is  but  a dream, 

Hemmed  in  by  the  spirit-bars? 

Life,  love  and  peace  are  a sweeter  theme; 

God’s  in  His  Heaven — but  the  portal  gleam 
Is  the  Earth-way  to  the  stars! 


T.  Elmore  Lucey. 


WAR  EAGLE  * 


Through  arbors  of  vine  where  the  boughs  intertwine 
Thy  waters,  War  Eagle,  enchantingly  shine; 

At  morning  a feast  for  the  eyes  in  the  east 
And  at  eve  the  sweet  light  of  repose  in  the  west. 

Steals  over  the  glide  of  thy  turbulent  tide 
And  makes  thee  forever  my  haven  of  rest. 

To  the  War  Eagle  pines  from  my  life’s  bitter  strain, 

I oft’  would  return  to  renew  me  again; 

I could  lie  down  by  them  and  awhile  could  forget 
All  the  grief  I’ve  endured,  all  the  failures  I’ve  met. 

I could  love,  I could  live,  with  no  wrong  to  forgive — 

A fellow  and  friend  to  each  creature  I met. 

If  fate  could  provide  me  a boon  more  desired 
Than  a palace  whose  halls  are  in  splendor  attired, 

I would  ask  for  the  cliff  and  the  high  mountain  steep 
Where  the  War  Eagle  waters  incessantly  leap 
At  noon  to  be  charmed  by  the  torrent’s  wild  storm, 

And  at  night  for  its  murmur  to  soothe  me  to  sleep. 

— George  G.  Stoddard. 

*War  Eagle  is  a stream  in  Northwest  Arkansas. 


52 


FORGET-ME-NOT 

A gallant  soldier  from  Arkansas  upon  Missouri’s  sod. 

With  little  life  between  him  and  the  judgment  of  his  God, 

Dying  lay  with  no  one  near  him  save  a friend  he  loved  so  well 
And  to  him  he  turned  in  anguish  as  his  thoughts  began  to  dwell 
On  the  past,  in  reminiscence,  and  his  sweetheart  far  away 
Whom  he  loved  with  a devotion  that  was  madness  I might  say. 

“Friend,”  he  said  with  gentle  pathos,  while  the  great  tears  dimmed  his  eye 
“It  is  hard,  and  O so  cruel  for  a soldier  thus  to  die. 

I,  who  hoped  a better  future  than  the  past  has  been  to  me 
Dreamed  last  night  that  I was  with  her,  standing  ’neath  a willow  tree — 
And  tonight  I know  the  symbol  of  the  drooping  willow  boughs 
And  recall  with  painful  sadness  all  our  melancholy  vows. 

In  the  shadows  of  the  willow — emblem  of  my  coming  death — 

Do  not  shudder,  it  is  coming,  for  I feel  my  parting  breath — 

Folding  her  unto  my  bosom,  I rehearsed  a sad  farewell. 

And  beneath  her  dark  brown  eyebrows,  tears  of  deep  dejection  fell. 
While  the  bitter,  poignant  moaning  of  a heart  that  succored  pain. 
Touched  my  soul  as  never  mortal  e’er  can  touch  that  soul  again. 

Oh  her  bright  blue  eyes  reflected  in  their  light  and  tears  that  fell 
A return  of  love  so  fervent  that  they  drew  around  a spell 
Of  enchantment,  so  beguiling,  I renounced  all  thought  of  care, 

And  I kissed  her  pallid  forehead  and  her  sparkling  dark  brown  hair, 
’Till  the  bugle  broke  my  slumber  just  before  the  break  of  day. 

And  ‘Forget-me-not’  I murmured,  as  I stole  in  grief  away. 

Ah!  the  willow  boughs  are  o’er  me  and  I see  them  bending  low 
Fliding  me  from  home  and  loved  ones,  whispering  sadly,  “You  must  go,” 
Seek  her  friend,  and  tell  her  kindly,  how  you  saw  her  lover  die 
On  the  green  sward  of  Missouri,  with  his  canopy  the  sky. 

And  the  last  word  that  he  murmured,  as  his  life  blood  stainded  the  spot, 
Was  a blessing  for  her  future  and  the  words  ‘Forget-me-not’! 

In  the  valley  of  the  Arkansas — the  story  changes  now — 

Lived  a girl  whose  light  had  perished  on  the  gory  Oak  Hill  brow. 
Reared  in  wealth  and  soft  indulgence,  she  was  cherished  by  her  sire 
As  too  grand  for  lowly  suitor,  far  above  his  warm  desire; 

He  had  scorned  the  humble  lover  when  he  urged  his  tender  claim, 
And  demanded  that  he  struggle  first  to  gather  wealth  and  fame. 


53 


These  were  grand  and  high  attractions  in  his  vain,  ambitious  mind. 
And  to  modest,  manly  virtue  he  was  unrelenting,  blind; 

What  was  pure  and  low  endeavor  to  a mercenary  man, 

Who  could  count  his  gold  by  thousands  and  his  acres  daily  scan? 

He  would  rather  chain  his  daughter  in  the  pompous  links  of  gold 
Than  allow  her  happy  union  with  the  one  her  love  consoled. 

She  had  heard  the  painful  story  of  his  death  upon  the  plain. 

And  her  face  revealed  the  anguish  her  sad  heart  could  not  contain; 
She  had  met  his  friend,  and  meeting,  he  had  sacrificed  his  heart. 

To  her  pure  and  gentle  beauty  and  her  mild,  unconscious  art; 

But  ‘Forget-me-not’  kept  sounding  as  a voice  from  Spirit  Shore, 

And  the  love  that  once  was  wakened  now  was  dead  forevermore. 

He  was  great,  the  social  equal  of  her  father,  and  combined 
With  his  social  high  poistion  he  had  wealth  and  brilliant  mind; 
These  were  chief  considerations  and  the  scheming  parent  smiled, 

As  he  planned  with  cunning  wisdom  for  the  auction  of  his  child; 

She  could  only  be  obedient,  and  at  least  with  faltering  breath 
Gave  her  sanction  to  the  union,  praying  all  the  while  for  death. 

Great  display  was  made  arranging  all  the  features  of  the  sale; 

Costly  gems  were  brought  to  glitter  on  the  brow  divinely  pale. 

On  that  night  the  church  was  crowded  with  the  rich  on  every  hand 
Who  had  flocked  to  see  the  nuptials,  hear  the  ceremony  grand — 

And  the  white  robes  of  the  preacher  in  his  ministerial  pride. 

Were  no  whiter  than  the  features  of  the  timid,  shrinking  bride. 

She  has  changed  her  name,  and  pulseless  clasps  her  hands  above  her  heart 
And  the  many  hundreds  gazing  see  her  of  a sudden  start. 

Looking  wildly  at  some  object  viewless  to  the  wondring  crowd 
Which  dreamed  not  that  her  bridal  dress  would  be  her  burial  shroud ; 

For  a moment  thus  she  lingers,  then  her  hands  above  her  head. 

Grasp  the  vision  of  her  lover — in  another  she  is  dead. 

— O.  C.  Ludwig. 


54 


MARGARET 


God’s  thoughts  find  expression  in  fancy  and  form. 

In  the  fragrance  of  flowers — the  grandeur  of  storm — 

In  the  tint  of  a roseleaf — the  grace  of  a bud — 

In  the  warmth  of  a sunbeam — the  moon’s  silver  flood, 

Or  melody  sweetest  that  e’er  ear  beguiled; 

But  God’s  fondest  thought  shapes  itself  in  a child — 

One  was  Margaret. 

Out  of  purity,  innocence,  gladness  and  love, 

A Master  Heart  fashioned  this  choice  gift  above, 

He  cast  her  small  form  in  the  daintiest  mould. 

Touched  her  soft  baby  hair  with  the  sunniest  gold; 

Put  curves  in  her  lips  that  an  angel  might  vie. 

Put  tint  in  her  cheek  and  bright  light  in  her  eye. 

Put  grace  in  her  motion  and  joy  in  her  smiles. 

Endowed  her  with  all  babyhood’s  sweetest  wiles — 

This  was  Margaret. 

Her  innocent  prattle,  like  music,  was  heard; 

Her  laughter  was  sweeter  than  song  of  a bird; 

The  touch  of  her  soft,  dimpled  hand  was  caress. 

The  touch  of  her  warm,  clinging  lips  was  to  bless; 

Her  smile  was  like  sunshine,  the  gloom  to  dispel; 

Her  faith  brought  fresh  faith  with  her  loved  ones  to  dwell — 
Such  was  Margaret. 


Life’s  calendar  holds  many  stormy  days; 

Life’s  pathway  leads  o’er  many  rugged  ways; 

The  best  of  life  holds  much  of  bitter  pain; 

Its  losses  far  exceed  its  dreams  of  gain; 

The  noonday  sunlight  comes — then  twilight  gloom — 
The  flower  withers  with  its  rare  perfume. 


But  there  is  One  who  sleeps  not  nor  forgets. 

Who  knows  life’s  pleasures — knows  its  vain  regrets. 
Who  sometimes  lets  a long,  long  pain  be  sent 
A greater,  sadder  trouble  to  prevent. 

For  this,  soft,  clinging  arms  must  be  unbound. 

Warm  lips  grow  cold  and  heart  strings  be  unwound. 
For  this — safe  from  the  storm,  and  strife,  and  cold — 
Was  taken  to  the  peaceful,  heavenly  fold 
Sweet  Margaret. 


— Bernie  Babcoci ?. 


55 


Miller. 


56 


O’POSSUM  TIME 

De  moon  hang  high  in  de  frosty  sky: — 

Git  un’er  de  moonbeams  mo’nah! 

Fros’  biff  de  possum  in  de  yuther  eye: 

Git  un’er  de  moonbeams  mo’nah! 

’Simmon  take  de  colic,  come  er-rollin’  ter  de  groun’ ; 

Nigger  gin  to  whistle  “Dixie”  when  de  leaves  tu’nin  brown; 
But  he  neber  cotch  de  possum  ’twell  de  fros’  come  down, 

Git  un’er  de  moonbeams,  mo’nah! 

Skillet  dance  de  coochee  w’en  de  fiah  bu’nin  low; — 

Git  un’er  de  moonbeams,  mo’nah! 

An’  de  yams  am  a-roastin’  w’en  de  fall  win’s  blow; — 

Git  un’er  de  moonbeams,  mo’nah! 

Mistah  Roostah  am  a-boa’din  in  de  peecawn  tree; 
Smokehouse  locked  wid  de  whi’  folks  key — 

But  he  ’possum  and  smokehouse  ernuff  fer  me! 

Git  un’er  de  moonbeams,  mo’nah! 


— T . Elmore  Lucey. 


LIFE 


Roberts. 

(Copyright  1907  by  Mrs.  Bernie  Babcock) 


58 


SLUMBER  SONG 


Hush-a-by,  baby  one. 

Strong  arms  enfold  thee; 

Do  not  cry,  baby  one, 

Mother’s  arms  hold  thee; 

Arms  strong  to  do  for  thee,  soft  and  caressing. 

Haven  of  happy  dreams,  babyhood’s  blessing, 

Calming  all  baby  fear. 

Staying  each  baby  tear. 

Trust  them,  my  baby  dear — 

Mother’s  strong  arms. 

Nestle  your  head  on  my  warm,  loving  breast 
There,  little  baby  one,  you  will  find  rest; 

Hush-a-by  baby  one — 

Rest. 

Hush,  tired  child  of  mine. 

Strong  arms  enfold  thee. 

Fear  not  the  tempest’s  blast. 

Father’s  arms  hold  thee; 

Arms  of  an  endless  love,  strong  and  paternal, 

Arms  of  Omnipotence,  grand  and  eternal, 

Soothing  earth’s  weary  care. 

Shutting  out  dark  despair — 

Mighty  your  load  to  bear — 

Father’s  strong  arms. 

Nestle  your  head  ’gainst  my  promise  blest 
There,  tired  child  of  mine,  you  shall  find  rest. 

Rest,  tired  child  of  mine — 

Rest. 

— Bernie  Babcock- 


59 


TO  THE  MOCKING  BIRD 


Thou  glorious  mocker  of  the  world!  I hear 
Thy  many  voices  ringing  through  the  glooms 
Of  these  green  solitudes;  and  all  the  clear. 

Bright  joyance  of  their  song  enthralls  the  ear, 

And  floods  the  heart.  Over  the  sphered  tombs 
Of  vanished  nations  rolls  thy  music-tide; 

No  light  from  History’s  starlit  page  illumes 
The  memory  of  these  nations;  they  have  died: 
None  care  for  them  but  thou;  and  thou  mayst  sing 
O’er  me,  perhaps,  as  now  thy  clear  notes  ring 
Over  their  bones  by  whom  thou  once  was  deified. 

Glad  scorers  of  all  cities;  Thou  dost  leave 
The  world’s  mad  turmoil  and  incessant  din, 
Where  none  in  other’s  honesty  believe, 

Where  the  old  sigh,  the  young  turn  gray  and  grieve, 
Where  misery  gnaws  the  maiden’s  heart  within: 
Thou  fleest  far  into  the  dark  green  woods, 

Where,  with  thy  flood  of  music,  thou  can’st  win 
Their  heart  to  harmony,  and  where  intrudes 
No  discord  on  thy  melodies.  Oh,  where. 

Among  the  sweet  musicians  of  the  air 
Is  one  so  dear  as  thou  to  these  old  solitudes? 

Ha!  what  a burst  was  that!  The  Aeolian  strain 
Goes  floating  through  the  tangled  passages 
Of  the  still  woods,  and  now  it  comes  again, 

A multitudinous  melody, — like  a rain 
Of  glassy  music  under  echoing  trees, 

Close  by  a ringing  lake.  It  wraps  the  soul 
With  a bright  harmony  of  happiness. 

Even  as  a gem  is  wrapped  when  round  it  roll 
Thin  waves  of  crimson  flame;  till  we  become 
With  the  excess  of  perfect  pleasure,  dumb, 

And  pant  like  a swift  runner  clinging  to  the  goal. 


60 


I cannot  love  the  man  who  doth  not  love, 

As  men  love  light,  the  song  of  happy  birds ; 

For  the  first  visions  that  my  boy-heart  wove 
To  fill  its  sleep  with,  were  that  I did  rove 

Through  the  fresh  woods,  what  time  the  snowy  herds 
Of  morning  clouds  shrunk  from  the  advancing  sun 
Into  the  debths  of  Heaven’s  blue  heart,  as  words 
From  the  Poet’s  lips  float  gently,  one  by  one, 

And  vanish  in  the  human  heart;  and  then 
I revelled  in  such  songs,  and  sorrowed  when, 

With  noon-heat  overwrought,  the  music  gush  was  done. 

I would,  sweet  bird,  that  I might  live  with  thee, 

Amid  the  eloquent  grandeur  of  these  shades. 

Alone  with  nature, — but  it  may  not  be; 

I have  to  struggle  with  the  stormy  sea 
Of  human  life  until  existence  fades 
Into  death’s  darkness.  Thou  wilt  sing  and  soar 

Through  the  thick  woods  and  shadow  checkered  glades, 
While  pain  and  sorrow  cast  no  dimness  o’er 
The  brilliance  of  thy  heart;  but  I must  wear. 

As  now,  my  garments  of  regret  and  care, — 

As  penitents  of  old  their  galling  sack  cloth  wore. 

Yet  why  complain?  What  though  fond  hopes  deferred 
Have  overshadowed  Life’s  green  paths  with  gloom? 
Content’s  soft  music  is  not  all  unheard; 

There  is  a voice  sweeter  than  thine,  sweet  bird, 

To  welcome  me  within  my  humble  home; 

There  is  an  eye,  with  love’s  devotion  bright, 

The  darkness  of  existence  to  illume. 

Then  why  complain?  When  death  shall  cast  his  blight 
Over  the  spirit,  my  cold  bones  shall  rest 
Beneath  these  trees;  and,  from  thy  swelling  breast. 

Over  them  pour  thy  song,  like  a rich  flood  of  light. 

— Albert  Pike. 


61 


A Bit  of  Country  Road  in  Arkansas. 


Parsel. 


62 


THE  LIVING  ROOM 

Dear  living-room,  quiet  and  simple. 

With  almanac  swung  on  the  door, 

With  chintz-covered  shelves  in  the  corner. 

And  rag-carpet  strip  on  the  floor; 

With  white-toweled  stand  and  worn  Bible, 

With  low,  sunny  window-sills  wide, 

With  old-fashioned  clock  and  green  curtains, 

And  cherry-boughs  swaying  outside. 

I saw  not  your  charm  in  my  childhood, 

I sighed  for  soft  rugs  and  stuffed  chairs; 

I hated  our  strips  of  rag  carpet, 

I longed  for  a hall  and  “upstairs.” 

Since  then  I have  crossed  life’s  great  threshold. 

Have  toiled  up  life’s  stairs,  steep  and  wide, 

Have  stood  all  alone  in  life’s  even. 

And  gazed  on  earth’s  dust-clinging  tide. 

I have  looked  into  life’s  gilded  parlor. 

Have  tasted  its  false,  heartless  pride; 

Have  slept  in  life’s  great  family  bedroom 
Where  hopes  have  been  born  and  have  died; 

Have  heard  the  gay  laugh  of  excitement, 

Have  walked  in  the  banqueting  hall. 

Have  learned  the  grave  might  of  the  writing 
That  glows  on  the  reveler’s  wall. 

I have  peeped  in  the  skeleton  closet. 

All  hid  behind  marble  and  glass; 

Have  seen  life’s  best  perfume  and  glitter 
Grow  reeking  and  hollow  as  brass. 

I have  rummaged  in  life’s  dusty  attic 
For  something  that  others  forgot. 

And  there,  ’mong  its  ashes  and  actors. 

Discovered  earth’s  cankering  rot. 

Dear  living-room,  calm  and  old-fashioned. 

With  almanac  swung  on  the  door. 

With  rag-cavpet  strip  and  worn  Bible — 

I yearn  for  your  quiet  once  more. 

I would  that  your  green-curtained  windows 
Knit  over  with  cherry-boughs  wild, 

Might  shut  out  the  cares  of  my  learning, 

And  bring  back  the  peace  of  a child. 

— Bernie  Babcock ■ 

63 


“Thou  Dwellest  in  the  Hearts  of  Men.” 


64 


TO  MISS  H.  AS  CLEOPATRA 


Again  she  wakes — again  the  peerless  queen 
Who  ruled  o’er  Egypt  in  those  ancient  days. 

In  her  immortal  loveliness  is  seen, 

A royal  beauty,  all  her  form  ablaze, 

With  jewels  that  are  pale  beside  her  charms. 

Again  she  glides  majestic  through  the  throng, 
With  silver  serpents  round  her  ivory  arms. 

And  seems  a goddess  as  she  moves  along. 

I look  on  her,  the  scene  around  me  fades, 

I am  transported  back  to  Pharaoh’s  hall; 
Around  me  are  the  dark  Egyptian  maids, 

And  in  the  midst  one  gleams  above  them  all, 
Who  shines  as  Sydius  ’mid  the  lesser  stars. 

Or  like  the  palm  among  her  sister  trees. 

In  gracefulness  unequaled.  Nothing  mars 
Her  matchless  beauty  as  with  queenly  ease 
She  onward  moves  among  the  dazzled  crowd. 

In  her  we  see  the  perfect  Grecian  form. 

But  with  a dreamy  languidness  endowed 
That  speaks  of  Oriental  fancies  warm. 

And  of  the  kisses  of  a southern  sun. 

I look  on  thee  and  now  I understand 
Why  godlike  Caesar  left  his  work  undone. 

And  tarried  here  in  Egypt’s  fabled  land. 
Forgetting  empire,  glory,  Rome,  for  thee. 

And  Anthony’s  madness  too,  I comprehend. 
Pursuing  thee  across  the  blood-stained  sea. 

Nor  waiting  for  the  battle’s  doubtful  end. 
Forsaking  all  to  sail  with  thee  away. 

Oh!  Cleopatra,  Cleopatra,  thou 
Wert  never  fairer  than  thou  art  today 

With  beauty’s  fadeless  laurel  on  thy  brow. 


G5 


The  ages  after  ages  ceaseless  roll. 

But  still  thou  dwellest  in  the  hearts  of  men, 

And  dreams  of  thee  still  haunt  the  troubled  soul; 

And  here  thou  art  again  as  fair  as  when 
Thou  floatedst  on  the  Nile  ’mid  sounding  lutes. 

Thy  gilded  barge  propelled  by  silver  oars, 

A very  Venus  with  her  attributes, 

Sweeping  in  radiances  past  enraptured  shores. 

We  hail  thee,  Cleopatra,  thee  we  hail. 

Who  dost  return  to  beautify  this  earth ! 

Against  thy  loveliness  can  naught  prevail, 

Again  we  hail  thee  at  thy  second  birth! 

— George  B.  Rose. 


“WILL  YOU  REMEMBER  ME?’’ 

When  youth  and  hope  have  sped,  and  trembling,  I, 

With  heart  all  bruised,  no  trusting  light  can  see; 

When  cankering  grief  and  pain  aloud  doth  cry — 

Will  you  remember  me? 

When  through  life’s  brambles  tread  I,  wandering,  slow. 

And  ’twixt  His  face  who  died  upon  the  tree 
And  mine,  no  ray  of  promise  seems  to  flow — 

Will  you  remember  me? 

When  hateful  basilisks  frown  down  and  leer. 

Whose  evil-staring  eyes  I,  shuddering,  flee; 

When  faith  gives  way  to  pallid,  sickening  fear — 

Will  you  remember  me? 

When  cold  and  still,  the  trestle  claims  the  clay 
Of  him  by  kindly  Death  at  last  made  free; 

Whose  storm-tossed  soul  no  longer  doubts  the  way — 

Will  you  remember  me? 

— Charles  S.  Blackburn. 


66 


THE  MISTAKEN  LOVE 


Let’s  make  a grave  for  your  love  and  mine 
And  bury  it  deep  and  low; 

Even  though  it  cost  us  many  a pain. 

Dear  heart,  ’twere  better  so. 

In  the  cold,  dark  earth  let’s  lay  it  away, 

Down,  down  where  damps  and  chills 
Will  soon  its  beautiful  form  decay, 

And  deaden  its  exquisite  thrills. 

’Tis  vain  and  useless,  this  love  of  ours. 

And  can  only  bring  us  tears. 

Better  slay  it  now  in  its  infancy. 

Than  when  it  gains  strength  from  years; 

For  then  the  murdered  corpse  will  rise. 

And  its  dead  hands  beckon  and  wave. 

While  the  infant  may  meekly  slumber  on, 

Far  down  in  its  deep,  dark  grave. 

You  shudder  and  sicken  at  what  I say. 

But  I tell  you  we  must  forget. 

We  must  lay  this  warm,  pulsing  love  away, 

Though  it  be  with  groan  and  regret. 

We  must  lay  it  low,  oh,  my  beloved. 

Even  though  it  may  struggle  and  smile; 

We  must  heap  on  it  great  clods  of  earth 
That  will  crush  it  after  awhile. 

— Alice  France. 


G7 


DRAWING  STRAWS. 

“Somebody  Must  Wash  the  Dishes.” 


Miss  Harris. 


6S 


THE  MAID  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 


She  was  born  amid  the  mountains, 

Where  the  blushing  violets  bloom, 

Where  the  cool,  refreshing  fountains 
Lend  the  breeze  a rich  perfume; 

There  she  grew, — a simple  childhood, 

Crowned  with  Nature’s  charms  and  grace. 

And  the  spirit  of  the  wildwood 
Shines  in  radiance  on  her  face. 

Eyes  that  sparkle  as  the  star-gleams 
Shining  o’er  her  native  hills; 

Cheeks  as  radiant  as  the  moonbeams 
Mirrored  in  those  crystal  rills. 

Mien  and  manner — independent, — 

Heart  that’s  pure,  and  spirit  strong; 

In  her  soul  Truth  shines  resplendent. 
Winsome  voice  that  melts  in  song. 

Queenly  grace  in  rare  completeness 
Grown  among  the  fragrant  flowers; 

Patience,  goodness,  and  soul-sweetness. 
Gathered  from  the  golden  hours 

Spent  among  the  hills  and  meadows. 
Listening  to  the  bird-notes  wild. 

Filled  with  sunshine,  touched  with  shadows, 
Nature’s  fairest,  sweetest  child. 

Boon  companion  of  sweet  posies. 

Comrade  of  the  fields  and  flowers. 

Laureled  with  the  rarest  roses. 

Wreathed  in  Nature’s  purest  powers; 

Form  divine!  in  charms  excelling 
All  the  glories  of  the  dawn; 

Venus-like,  pure  love  compelling; 

Lithe  and  graceful  as  the  fawn. 


69 


Never  Queen  in  princely  palace 

Crowned  with  jewels  rich  and  rare, 

Drinking  Pleasure’s  nectared  chalice, 

Held  a beauty  half  so  fair; 

As  this  merry  mountain  maiden, 

Where  the  apple-blossoms  grow; 

Where  the  fields  with  fruits  are  laden. 

And  the  perfumed  breezes  blow. 

Hail!  fair  maiden  of  the  mountains, 

Bright-eyed,  beautiful,  and  free. 

Fill  our  goblets  from  the  fountains. 

We  shall  drink  a health  to  thee; 

May  the  sunshine,  joy,  and  gladness. 

Far  surpass  all  pain  and  strife; 

May  no  days  of  shade  or  sadness 
Mar  the  sweetness  of  thy  life. 

— M.  Edwin  Dunaway. 


AN  ARKANSAS  AUTUMN 

A deepening  hue  in  the  cloudless  skies. 

As  blue  as  those  in  Venice  are, 

While  the  dreaming  breeze,  as  the  bird  that  flies, 

Goes  to  an  unknown  land  afar. 

The  roses  that  bloom  in  the  garden  fair — 

Stir  memories  faint  of  days  gone  by. 

The  butterfly  lingers;  the  day  is  rare, 

Summer  indeed  is  loath  to  die. 

The  mocking  bird  rests  from  his  joyous  note. 

The  deep  green  leaves  are  locked  in  sleep 
Through  the  ambient  air  there  seem  to  float 
Echoes  of  bird-songs  sweet  and  deep. 

Cecil  Hampden  Cutis  Howard. 


70 


WHERE  DO  THE  KISSES  GROW 

They  leap  from  the  soul  of  a baby 
And  then  all  over  it  spread, 

From  the  white  and  pink  of  its  toe-tips 
To  the  halo  of  gold  on  its  head; 

From  the  depths  of  its  dainty  dimples, 

From  the  roseate,  laughter-turned  lips, 
From  the  soft,  shapely  neck  and  shoulders 
To  the  tapering  finger-tips. 


71 


They’re  hidden  within  every  heart-fold 
And  cuddled  down  close  to  the  core, 

And  tho’  they  are  evermore  gathered, 

Still,  I find  there  a thousand-fold  more; 

And  each  one  seems  softer  and  sweeter 
Than  the  one  I found  just  before. 

Till  I wonder  if  ever  the  sweetest 
Is  taken  from  baby’s  vast  store. 

So,  daily  I search  for  and  seize  them. 

And  hourly  I pluck  a new  prize, 

Sometimes  from  the  whitest  of  foreheads, 

Sometimes  from  the  brightest  of  eyes; 

Of  all  the  rare  sweets  sent  from  heaven, 

These  kisses,  to  me,  are  most  sweet, 

A blessing  they  bring  to  my  being 
As  the  holiest  emotions  there  meet. 

And  I whisper — O angel-kissed  baby. 

Do  you  feel — can  you  ever  quite  know 
Of  the  wonderful  worth  of  these  kisses 
That  ever  continue  to  grow? 

Of  the  wearisome  woes  that  they  soften, 

Of  the  heart-cares  they  curtain  from  sight. 

Of  their  magic  that  soars  thro’  the  sunshine 
And  on  thro’  the  knells  of  the  night? 

I hold  that  we’re  higher  and  better 
For  every  fresh  kiss  that  we  take. 

For  every  fond  love-token  given — 

When  given  for  sacred  love’s  sake; 

For,  if  purity’s  planted  in  Earthdom, 

Then  surely  it  springs  from  the  soul 
Of  that  beautiful,  angel-like  being 
As  its  life-page  begins  to  unroll. 

Then’  I’ll  gather  them  early  and  often. 

From  the  bright  curly  head  to  the  toe, 

I can’t  rob  the  wee  tot  of  its  treasures, 

For  still  they  continue  to  grow, 

And  in  long  after  years  fondest  memory 
E’en  backward  forever  will  flow 
To  that  bonny-eyed  babe  of  the  bygone. 

Whose  kisses  no  longer  may  grow. 

— Josie  F razee  Cappleman. 


72 


THE  WINTER  GIRL 


The  spring-time  girl’s  a blossom. 
The  summer  girl  is  sweet; 

The  autumn  girl’s  a winner. 

But  the  winter  girl’s — complete. 


Her  soft  hair  proves  a prison 
For  the  flakes  of  falling  snow. 
Her  lips  part  in  caresses 
To  the  breezes  as  they  blow. 


Her  charms  have  made  me  captive 
And  for  me  it  were  enough. 

If  I could  not  be  the  snow  or  breeze 
To  be  my  sweeheart’s  muff. 


— Bernie  Babcocl 


73 


Kettering. 


Miller. 


74 


ALONG  THE  ARKANSAS. 

Behind  the  Wooded  Slope  and  Curve.’ 


SONG  OF  THE  ARKANSAS. 

I come  from  Colorado  land, 

From  rockies  and  abysses. 

From  icy  streams  and  coves  serene 
And  jagged  precipices. 

From  canons  deep,  where  stately  ferns 
Grow  thick  on  matted  hazes, 

AX/ here  sunbeams  tangle  in  the  gloam 
Of  dark  and  silent  mazes. 

I roll  through  labyrinthian  cells, 

Through  woodlands  bleak  and  hoary. 

Through  rock-walled  mounts  with  crests  of  snow 
And  summits  old  in  story. 

Beneath  the  blue-domed  vaulted  skies 
I stretch  my  emerald  column; 

I lift  my  liquid  notes  on  high. 

My  anthem  sweet  and  solemn. 

And  many  a field  of  waving  grain 
Looks  on  me  as  I wander, 

And  here  a farm  house  quaint  and  old 
And  then  a city  yonder. 

And  many  golden  sand-bar  planes 
Rise  on  my  bosom  beaming. 

And  many  an  isle  with  rosy  haunts 
Blooms  in  the  sunlight  gleaming. 

I cheer  the  lovely  daffodils, 

I kiss  the  saintly  willows; 

I make  the  giant  oaks  and  elms. 

Quake  neath  my  sounding  billows. 

Behind  the  wooded  slope  I curve. 

By  brooklet,  lake  and  river; 

They  join  me  and  I thunder  on 
My  solemn  psalm  forever. 

— Turner  Mouring. 


75 


“Tell  Me  Why  1 Should  Adore  You.” 


Harris. 


76 


DEAR  BROWN  EYES 


I have  missed  you,  dear  Brown  Eyes; 

I have  missed  you  though  I kissed  you, 
’Neath  the  mellow  Southern  skies, 

When  you  left  me  and  bereft  me 
Dear  Brown  Eyes. 

I could  not  forget,  Brown  Eyes, 

Had  I tried,  my  little  sweetheart; 

You  are  dear  to  me  and  dearer. 

Whether  far  away  or  nearer 

Than  my  language  can  impart. 

Dear  Brown  Eyes. 

Tell  me  why  I should  adore  you. 

Dear  Brown  Eyes. 

Tell  me  this,  Oh,  I implore  you, 

Dear  Brown  Eyes. 

Were  those  tender  little  phrases 
But  the  path  through  phantom  mazes, 
Leading  me  to  dark  recesses. 

Far  away  from  your  careses. 

Dear  Brown  Eyes? 

Tell  me  now,  my  sweetest  one, 

Dear  Brown  Eyes. 

If  thy  love  I have  not  won. 

Dear  Brown  Eyes. 

Lead  me  not  into  the  midnight 
Shadows  where  shall  fall  no  light, 

Dear  Brown  Eyes. 


— O.  C.  Ludwig. 


“Has  Your  Laughter  Turned  to  Weeping?” 


78 


SIGH  SOFTLY 


Do  you  sit  all  broken  hearted 

In  the  dust  where  life’s  hopes  started? 

Do  you  mourn  for  joys  departed? 

Sigh  softly. 

Other  lives  the  fray  are  fearing, 

Tired  feet  their  end  are  nearing, 

Other  lives  your  sigh  are  hearing — 

Sigh  softly. 

Has  your  pleasure  turned  to  grieving? 

Do  you  yearn  for  loved  ones  sleeping 
While  o’er  you  Time’s  storms  are  sweeping? 

Sigh  softly. 

Other  broken  hearts  are  bleeding. 

Other  hearts  some  cheer  are  needing. 

Other  hearts  your  heart  are  reading — 

Sigh  softly. 

Have  you  found  the  world  deceiving? 

Has  your  pleasure  turned  to  grieveing? 

God  is  true — in  Him  believing. 

Sigh  softly. 

If  tears  soothe  your  eyes,  oft  burning, 

Shed  them — from  the  world’s  gaze  turning. 

If  a sigh  relieves  your  yearning. 

Sigh,  but  O sigh  softly. 

— Bernie  Babcock • 


79 


THE  PINE  AND  THE  VINE 


By  a stream  among  the  mountains 

Stands  a pine  tree  straight  and  bare. 

And  across  by  murmuring  fountains. 

Grows  a vine  with  verdure  fair. 

And  the  pine  with  ardent  yearning 
Stretches  out  to  her  his  arms, 

While  the  vine,  his  love  returning. 

Longs  to  yield  to  him  her  charms. 

But  the  torrent  rolls  between  them. 

And  they  stretch  their  arms  in  vain; 

Vainly  o’er  the  waters  lean  them. 

Parted  are  their  lives  in  twain. 

And  the  pine  tree,  sadly  moaning. 

Speaks  the  sorrow  of  his  soul 

While  the  vine,  her  grief  disowning, 

Smiles  with  woman’s  self-control. 

So  they  look  to  one  another 
Over  that  tumultuous  tide ; 

Vainly  would  their  longing  smother. 

Though  the  waves  their  lives  divide. 

— George  B.  Rose. 


80 


OLD  STATE  HOUSE 


Built  in  1836  by  Governor  Pope  and  called  “Pope's  Folly,”  because 
of  its  early  day  magnificence,  and  yet  recognized  as  a 
valuable  monument  of  classic  architecture 


THE  PINE  AND  THE  VINE 


By  a stream  among  the  mountains 
Stands  a pine  tree  straight  and  bare, 

And  across  by  murmuring  fountains. 

Grows  a vine  with  verdure  fair. 

And  the  pine  with  ardent  yearning 
Stretches  out  to  her  his  arms. 

While  the  vine,  his  love  returning. 

But  the  torrent  rolls  between ’them, 

, . .•  And  they  stretch  their  arms. jn  vain; 

oaoeosd  Tyllod  i tkgfivvSqerJ  ^ d£8l  ni  JliuS 

b 8B  bavingoahlEi^BflB  fianoDfliii§3sm)yteba^f^63  a)i  lo 

snutaaiidoiB  oieejsb  lo  Jnomunom  aldsuffiv 

And  the  pine  tree,  sadly  moaning. 

Speaks  the  sorrow  of  his  soul 
While  the  vine,  her  grief  disowning. 

Smiles  with  woman’s  self-control. 

So  they  look  to  one  another 
Over  that  tumultuous  tide ; 

Vainly  would  their  longing  smother, 
i hough  the  waves  their  lives  divide. 


* — George  B.  Rose. 


THE  OLD  STATE  HOUSE 


The  years  are  made  immortal  by  the  deeds 
Of  men  who  lived  and  labored  in  their  day; 

Clear-toned,  and  sweet,  their  deathless  memory  pleads. 

Vibrant  with  life — down  echoing  aisles  and  gray. 

Such  were  the  men  who  gave  our  State  its  home ; 

Sacred  forever  be  each  templed  hall 
Each  stately  pillar- — its  o’erreaching  dome — 

Here  long-hushed  voices  wake — again  to  call 

In  earnest  tones  through  which  brave  hearts  once  spake ; 

Here  framed  fair  State,  the  temple  of  thy  laws; 

Here  shackles  of  old  customs  learned  to  break. 

Here  lived  a purpose — lifted  here  a cause. 

Its  every  room  is  vocal  with  the  sound 
Of  voices  eloquent  that  linger  yet; 

Spare  these  old  walls,  they  stand  on  hallowed  ground; 

Oh!  keep  them  sacred — should  Today  forget 

The  deeds  heroic  Yesterdays  have  wrought? 

Should  the  son  fail  to  keep  inviolate 
The  father’s  oath?  forget  to  crown  his  thought. 

With  deed  as  noble,  based  on  faith  as  great? 

O,  tide  of  traffic  bid  thy  waves  be  still — 

So  shall  these  dear  walls  ever  sacred  be. 

To  men  of  earnest  purpose — iron  will. 

Whose  memory  lives — our  sacred  legacy- — 

Here  hold  in  trust  the  records  of  the  years; 

Here  garner  safely  the  memorials  fond 
Of  those  who  mourned  by  loyal,  grateful  tears, 

Have  passed  to  silence  of  the  vast  Beyond. 

—Mrs.  S.  R.  Allen. 


si 


A FANCY 


O,  dear  one,  come  to  me  and  be  my  own; 

I’ll  take  you  to  the  fairest  lands  on  which  the  world  e’er  shone; 

I’ll  show  you  all  the  jewel-spots  of  earth. 

I’ll  bring  you  gems  of  beauty  and  of  worth; 

I’ll  clothe  you  in  such  gowns  as  houri’s  wear. 

Finished  with  ’broideries  and  rich  laces  rare. 

All  this  and  more,  much  more  I’ll  do  for  you 
Dear  love,  if  but  my  dreams  come  true. 

’Neath  brightest  suns,  and  in  the  balmiest  breeze, 

We’ll  dreamily  sail  o’er  leagues  of  fairest  seas; 

We’ll  pluck  bright  flowers,  by  tropic  summer  spent. 

And  cull  rich  spices  from  the  Orient. 

Sweetheart  from  thee,  I’ll  guard  dull  care  away, 

And  make  December  seem  to  you  as  May. 

Ah,  many,  many  things  I’ll  do  for  you, 

If  I can  make  my  dreams  come  true. 

But  ah,  dear  heart,  if  you’ll  but  come  to  me, 

The  fondest  lover  on  this  earth  I’ll  be. 

I’ll  wear  your  love  as  wears  a king  his  crown, 

Life’s  fairest  jewel  e’er  from  heaven  sent  down. 

I’ll  cherish  you  in  spirit  and  in  truth, 

I’ll  love  you  in  old  age  as  in  fair  youth. 

Forever  and  for  aye,  I will  be  true  to  you. 

Even  though,  dear  one,  my  dreams  do  not  come  true. 

— E.  Patterson. 


82 


“VIA  CRUCIS  ” 

The  hills  and  vales  of  Palestine  were  fair 
Unto  the  sight  of  Him 

Who  drank  the  bitter  cup  of  grief  and  care 
All  running  o’er  the  brim. 

He  healed  the  sick,  the  halt,  the  blind,  the  lame. 

But  none  could  right  His  wrongs; 

To  captives  He  gave  freedom,  but  none  came 
To  loosen  up  His  thongs. 

Disheveled,  bleeding,  pale — immortal  sight! 

The  judgment  floor  he  trod. 

His  eyes  agleam  with  agony  that  might 
Have  boldly  challenged  God. 

His  unclad  feet  trod  earth’s  cold,  thorn-laid  road 
That  to  the  Cross  did  lead; 

Should  we  complain,  if,  pricked  by  hidden  goad, 

Our  own  do  sting  and  bleed? 

— Charles  S.  Blackburn. 

S3 


THE  LEGEND  OF  DARDANELLE  ROCK 

Where  bold  Arkansas’  yellow  stream 
Winds  southward  to  the  sea. 

There  lies  the  dark  and  bloody  ground 
Where  fell  the  Cherokee. 

In  numbers  weak,  in  fury  strong. 

They  held  their  vantage  well; 

And  loud  and  shrill  the  war-cry  rang 
Where  strode  young  Dardanelle. 

By  birth,  a king,  by  prowress,  chief. 

He  dared  the  invading  foe; 

And  many  a brawny  Choctaw  brave 
By  him  was  stricken  low. 

But  in  a fatal  hour  he  met 
And  loved  an  Indian  Maid; 

Leonietta — fairest  flower 

That  bloomed  in  sun  or  shade. 

From  eagle’s  wing — from  hill  and  plain 
For  her  were  treasures  brought; 

And  her  soft  eye  had  brightest  gleams 
Of  summer  sunshine  caught. 

The  pride  of  Choctaw’s  haughty  race 
Was  she — their  young  gazelle. 

But  dearer  than  her  own  heart’s  blood 
To  brave,  bold  Dardanelle. 

Oft,  floating  in  his  light  canoe 
At  midnight’s  witching  hour. 

Was  he  ’neath  Ozark’s  shadows  drawn 
By  love’s  mysterious  powers. 

No  more  in  warlike  counsel  rang 
His  voice  to  all  the  tribe, 

And  silently  with  scorn  he  heard 
Their  hints  at  pledge  and  bribe. 

To  his  Lenoietta’s  breast. 

He  gave  his  hopes  and  fears; 

For  much  he  feared  his  father’s  wrath 
And  feuds  of  earlier  years. 


S4 


“Acquaint  him  with  our  troth,’’  he  said, 

“And  when  the  sun  has  set, 

On  yonder  dizzy  crag  I’ll  stand, 

I pray  you  not  forget. 

“If,  when  the  sun  has  reached  its  base, 

You  touch  the  river’s  side 

And  wave  your  mantle,  I shall  come 
To  claim  you  as  my  bride. 

“But  if  the  sun-light  falls  and  fades, 

A.nd  still  1 see  no  sign ; 

Let  them  your  woman’s  heart  bestow. 

This  dark  stream  shall  keep  mine.’’ 

For  hours  he  stood,  his  heavy  heart 
Throbbed  anxiously  and  fast; 

Then  turned  his  eye  toward  those  pines 
’Neath  which  they  wandered  last. 

To  the  Great  Spirit  then  he  spoke. 

And  loud  the  death-cry  rang; 

Then  fell  his  crimson  blanket  there 
As  o’er  the  cliff  he  sprang. 

O woeful  maid,  O trust  betrayed; 

The  last  bright  sunbeam  fell. 

Then  closed  the  dark  and  icy  stream 
Above  bold  Dardanelle. 

Still  does  Arkansas’  yellow  stream 
Wind  southward  to  the  sea, 

Past  long-forgotten  mounds  that  tell 
Where  lies  the  Cherokee. 

No  more  they  chase  the  bounding  deer, 

Or  breezy  uplands  press, 

They  lived  and  died  as  men  have  done 
In  many  a wilderness. 

The  river  flows,  the  mountain  stands. 

There  is  no  more  to  tell; 

Save  that  this  tall  and  frowning  rock. 

Is  still  called  Dardanelle. 

— Annie  Robertson  Noxon. 


85 


“She’s  a Darling,  Three  Years  Old. 


Harris. 


S6 


AN  ARKANSAS  ENCHANTRESS 

She  smiled  at  me. 

My  heart  was  filled  with  rapture  as  I gazed  into  her  eyes — 

As  mellow  as  the  moonlight,  as  blue  as  summer  skies; 

She  blushed  not  as  I clasped  her,  round  her  slender  little  waist. 
And  I pressed  her  to  my  bosom  with  a passion  warm  and  chaste. 

She  smiled  at  me. 

Her  head  upon  my  bosom  lay  in  confidence  and  trust, 

And  if  I had  not  loved  her  then  I would  not  have  been  just. 

For  all  the  souls  who  view  this  maid  with  cheeks  so  soft  and  rare 
Esteem  her  as  the  sweetest  and  the  dearest  of  the  fair. 

She  smiled  at  me. 

Oh,  must  I tell  the  world  this  wondrous  love  of  mine? 

And  yet  perhaps,  the  truth  e’en  now  you  more  than  half  divine. 
So  rather  than  perplex  the  world  the  secret  I’ll  unfold — 

This  angel  is  my  daughter,  she’s  a darling  three  years  old. 

— O.  C.  Ludn-'g. 


87 


“With  Laughing  Eyes  and  Coquetry.” 


SS 


LOVE’S  LESSON 


I know  a maiden  fair  to  see. 

With  laughing  eyes  and  coquetry, 

Who’d  thrall  you  with  her  witchery — 

If  she  would. 

Her  parted  lips  fine  pearls  reveal 
She’d  smile  and  make  your  senses  reel, — 

And  then  your  loving  heart  she’d  steal — 

If  she  could. 

And  if  into  her  eyes  there’ d chance 
Love’s  recognition — fatal  glance — 

She’d  then  you’re  very  soul  entrance — 

If  she  would. 

“No  King  than  I could  richer  be. 

If  thou,  fair  maid,  would’st  smile  on  me”, 

I said — and  my  harp’s  on  a willow  tree, 

For  she  did. 

George  W . Gunder. 


S9 


“The  Sleeper  in  the  Rose  Heart.” 


Rayburn, 


90 


TO  A ROSE 

I wonder  what  re-incarnate  and  glorious  soul. 

Revisited  the  haunts  of  man,  within  thy  wondrous  folds ; 

What  gold-winged  spirit  quit  the  empyrean  shoal. 

To  drink  the  floral  nectar  that  thy  perfumed  petal  holds. 

Thy  saffron  couch  wherein  this  heavenly  Bacchant  lay. 

Was  softer  than  the  down  on  glorious  Hera’s  snowy  throat; 

Thy  petal  censers,  swung  in  golden  summer  day, 

Outbreathed  a perfumed  poem  to  thy  charge  on  dreams  afloat. 

Bright-armored  Phoebus  bold  on  quiet  foot  stole  by. 

Lest  clanking  chain  or  dazzling  spear  might  her  loved  dreamer  wake; 
The  zephyr,  gauze  entrained,  breathed  forth  a gentle  sigh. 

And  gathered  close  her  filmy  robes,  lest  she  his  slumbers  break. 

The  dew-sprite  from  his  leafy  brew-house  stole  to  where 

The  sleeper  in  the  rose-heart  dreamed  of  wondrous  things  and  bright; 

And  with  moist  fingers  touched  the  dreamer’s  lips  and  hair. 

Until  they  shone,  and  robbed  the  moonbeams  of  their  shimm’ring  light. 

What  shall  it  be — her  recompense,  her  earned  pay, 

For  all  the  lavished  tenderness  she’s  ministered  to  him, 

Shall  it  but  be  upon  some  virgin  breast  to  lay, 

Or  lightly  clasped,  to  rest  in  some  dead  waxen  hand  and  slim? 

— -George  Fleming  Chapline. 


!>1 


92 


A Native  Study,  With  a Touch  of  Black. 


THE  SINGER 


In  the  midst  of  the  creed-canting  throng. 

He  came  with  a song. 

And  the  world  was  engulfed  in  wrong — 

Yet  he  ambled  along. 

Laughing  at  the  stern  mandates  of  fate 
While  the  nations  were  seething  in  hate — 

Singing,  “Ho,  for  the  Beautiful  Gate 
And  the  radiant  realms  of  song!’’ 

Singing  his  song. 

He  rollicked  along. 

And  the  theme  of  his  dream 
Was  a radiant  gleam 
Of  the  Better  Age,  and  the  angel-throng. 

A black  box  rumbled  along 

Through  the  sobbing  throng. 

And  a pall  fell  with  the  funeral  gong; 

But  he  passed  with  a song 
Lingering  long  o’er  his  lifeless  clay — 

A song  that  told  of  an  age-long  day. 

And  Heaven-dried  tears,  and  joy  for  aye, 

And  a white-robed,  singing  throng. 

And  the  rabble-throng 
Caught  up  his  song 

And  far  from  the  wars. 

In  the  gleam  of  the  stars, 

The  world  fares  on  in  the  joy  of  his  song. 

— 77ms.  Elmore  Lucey. 


93 


“Through  the  Mists  of  the  Past.” 


94 


SEXTENNIAL 


Is  it  the  lees  of  Life,  and  nothing  more, 

When  the  years  have  come  to  the  triple  score? 

Is  it  only  the  close  of  a Winter’s  day. 

Where  the  sunshine  fades  in  the  West  away? 

Is  it  only  the  tip  of  the  mountain  crest. 

Where  the  lingering  rays  of  the  sunlight  rest; 

And  where,  through  the  mists  of  the  Past  are  seen 
The  ghosts  of  the  joys  that  once  have  been; 

While  down  in  the  valley,  far  below 
Lie  the  graves  of  the  things  of  Long  Ago? 

Nay,  nay.  Not  that.  Lor  he  who  holds 
By  the  simple  faith  that  the  World  enfolds, 

Linds,  unto  Life’s  last,  feeblest  spark. 

That  the  daylight  far  exceeds  the  dark; 

That  the  Seasons  bring,  as  they  glide  away, 

More  days  of  brightness  than  days  of  gray; 

That  the  Spring  gives  place,  in  its  varying  moods. 

To  the  mellowing  tints  of  the  Autumn  woods; 

And  stars  come  out  in  the  evening  air. 

Which  we  fail  to  see  in  the  noonday  glare. 

And  here,  as  I backward  turn  mine  eye. 

O’er  the  faded  days  that  behind  me  lie. 

How  like  a flitting  glimpse  appears. 

The  vista  made  by  these  sixty  years! 

Gone;  and  forever.  Beyond  recall. 

Each  deed  of  itself  to  stand  or  fall. 

In  the  eyes  of  Him  who  judgeth  all. 

But  yet  we  cling  to  the  firmer  hope. 

That  each  will  be  seen  in  its  wider  scope; 

And  out  of  His  mercy  he  be  hailed 
With  large  allowance  where  we  failed. 

As  the  day  dies  out  with  a golden  gleam. 

And  the  red  West  glows  with  its  parting  beam. 

So  would  I,  friends,  when  it  comes  my  lot. 

Wish  to  depart  thus  calmly,  and  not 
As  the  Old  Year  passes,  sad  and  slow. 

Wrapped  in  the  shroud  of  the  winter’s  snow. 

But  rather  in  twilight,  fair  and  clear. 

Where  the  quivering  discs  of  the  stars  appear. 

— Lap  Hempstead. 


95 


“Drink  the  Blood-Red  Autumn  Wine.” 


Kettering. 


96 


YVONNE 


Now  the  Autumn’s  come,  Yvonne, 

Pride  of  gold  and  blue; 

Fair  the  world  to  look  upon, 

Heart  to  heart  is  true. 

Summer  joys  with  Summer  fled. 

Summer  pleasures  gone, 

Thou  art  fairer  than  the  fair — 

Fair  thou  art,  Yvonne. 

Now  the  cheerless  bough  and  leaf. 

Browning  in  the  gray; 

Kiss  your  hands,  Yvonne,  to  grief 
Born  on  yesterday. 

Drink  the  blood-red  Autumn  wine 
Ere  its  soul  be  gone, 

Lift  thy  red  lips  unto  mine — 

Fair  thou  art,  Yvonne. 

— Brodie  Payne. 


J)7 


“Nothing  Goes  Hard  With  Me.” 


J)8 


Rosser. 


NOTHING  GOES  HARD  WITH  ME 


’Twas  but  a workman  on  his  way 
From  tiresome  toil,  to  tea; 

Yet,  in  a cherry  tone  he  sang: 

“Nothing  goes  wrong  with  me.’’ 

I noted  well  the  rough-hewn  look 
The  awkward,  untaught  air, 

The  spade  and  shovel  on  his  back 
The  tangled,  unshorn  hair. 

And  these  the  thoughts  that  came  uncalled, 

Unto  my  musing  mind — 

Where,  in  the  higher  walks  of  life 
Can  we  contentment  find? 

Content,  in  such  a great  degree, 

As  this  poor  workman  proves 

Dwells  constantly  within  the  walks 
Wherein  he  daily  moves. 

How  many  at  the  toilsome  task 
That  each  new  day  must  bring 

Could  learn  from  this  poor  laborer 
To  be  content  and  sing? 

And  find  how  light  the  work  would  fall 
No  matter  what  it  be 

While  cherishing  the  workman’s  words, 

“Nothing  goes  hard  with  me.’’ 

— Josie  F razee  Cappleman. 


99 


100 


Down  on  de  ol’  Saline. 


A DREAM  OF  OLD  SALINE 

Blue  goose  a-swimmin’  in  de  ribber  wid  her  mate, 

Down  on  de  oh  Saline. 

Cat  fish  a-huntin’  long  de  bottom  fo’  de  bait, 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline. 

Yaller-hammer  peckin’  on  de  holler  sycamo’ 

Jes’  above  de  water  lilies  bloomin’  down  below; 

Bass  and  perch  a-jumpin’  as  dey  frolic  to  and  fro, 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline. 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline, 

Whar  de  woods  so  fresh  and  green, 

O turn  me  loose  at  de  ol’  Blue  Goose, 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline. 

I user  take  my  Dinah  in  my  little  gum  canoe, 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline, 

An’  float  long  de  shady  bank  wid  nothin’  else  to  do, 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline; 

Den  we  listen  to  de  cuckoo  and  de  moanin’  turtle  dove, 

De  birds  an’  bees  a-hummin’  in  flowers  an’  trees  above 
An’  it  jes’  so  fine  an’  pleasant  dat  I has  to  fall  in  love, 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline. 

De  whippowill  he  whistle  when  de  twilight  fade  away, 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline. 

An’  de  risin’  moon  a-shinin’  thro’  de  trees  as  bright  as  day, 
Down  on  de  ol’  Saline. 

Dats  de  time  my  Dinah,  in  her  white  an’  fluffy  dress, 

A string  o’  beads  around  her  neck  and  cross  upon  her  breas’. 

Look  sholy  like  a angel,  and  she  sholy  look  her  bes’, 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline. 

Den  we  sets  awhile  so  quiet,  and  my  heart  am  beatin’  fast, 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline, 

Dat  I can’t  hoi’  in  no  longer,  and  I has  to  speak  at  last, 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline. 

Den  I tells  her  how  I loves  her,  an’  she  looks  so  sweet  at  me, 

I tros  my  paddle  overboard  an’  drops  down  on  my  knee. 

And  I ax  her  will  she  hab  me,  and  she  answer  “Yessirree,” 

Down  on  de  ol’  Saline. 

— C.  D.  Chase. 


101 


Easter  Lillies. 


Grabel. 


102 


EASTER  LILIES 


Somewhere  while  the  Easter  lilies 
Swing  their  perfumed  censers  white, 

Softened  rays  of  sunlight  falling 

In  lines  aslant,  and  warm,  and  bright, 

Shall  gild  the  altar,  nave  and  chancel; 

Rest  with  tender,  roseate  ray 
On  the  font,  enwreathed  with  lilies 
For  baptismal  rites  today. 

Another  pilgrim  on  the  journey 
From  the  cradle  to  the  tomb, 

Shall  receive  a name  and  blessing 
While  the  Easter  lilies  bloom. 

Somewhere,  while  the  Easter  lilies 
Open  unto  warmth  and  light, 

A gentle  bride  before  the  altar 

Shall  stand  in  spotless  robes  of  white, 

O’er  life’s  morning — in  its  orient 
Glows  a sunrise  bright  and  fair. 

No  gray  of  mist,  no  black  of  cloud 
To  veil  the  promise  there. 

Oh,  years  be  golden  at  life’s  noonday — 

With  silver  tinge  its  twilight  gloom; 

O’er  her  be  sunlight,  round  her  flowers, 

Fair  as  the  Easter  lilies  bloom. 

Somewhere  while  the  Easter  lilies 
Droop  their  chalices  of  snow, 

A funeral  train  with  low,  hushed  footsteps 
Passes  solemnly  and  slow. 

One  is  gone,  whose  clustering  tresses 
Are  no  more  by  flowers  caressed; 

A pallid  cross  of  Easter  lilies 
Lies  unstirred  upon  the  breast. 

In  baptisms,  bridals,  burials. 

Morning,  noondays,  nights  of  gloom. 

Thus  the  years  fulfill  their  cycles. 

While  the  lilies  fade  and  bloom. 

—Mrs.  S.  R.  Allen. 


103 


THE  JEW 


We  peer  into  the  misty  past  grown  dim  with  age, 

And  by  the  help  of  prophet,  scholar  and  of  sage 
Unveil  the  gloom  of  time  exploring  musty  things, 

Search  mummies,  and  raid  tombs  of  long  forgotten  kings. 

We  leave  our  tongue  for  Latin,  and  this  then  for  Greek; 

Then  leave  them  both  for  Hebrew — and  still  further  seek 
For  voices  of  the  silent  past  from  graven  stones, 

From  yellow  parchments  of  the  monks,  and  crumbling  bones. 

Why  do  we  overlook  when  searching  time  and  place 
A living  breathing  monument — a race? 

Dead  things  tell  truly  of  the  past — let  live  things,  too: 

I pray  thee,  sage  of  ancient  lore,  what  of  the  Jew? 

Whence  and  how  did  he  come,  and  whither  is  his  home? 

Why  does  he  like  a scattered  flock  the  Nations  roam? 

Why  is  he  buffeted  about  on  Time’s  rough  sea 
Like  alien  people  without  name  or  pedigree? 

How  came  he  to  be  what  the  prophets  old  foresaw? 

How  came  he  with  the  oracles  of  God — the  Law? 

Explain  to  me  all  these  things:  they  will  have  told  you 
That  God’s  Word  written  does  not  err.  His  record’s  true. 

Those  now-a-days  who  boast  their  proud  ancestral  strain 
And  look  upon  the  Jew  with  pity  or  disdain. 

Must  know  while  Jewish  fathers  were  God’s  chosen  ones 
Their  sires  bent  low  the  heathen  knee  to  wood  and  stones. 

The  blood  that  coursed  through  Abram’s  veins  none  can  gainsay 
From  father  unto  son  transmitted,  lives  today. 

The  love  of  Ester’s  heart  the  ages  cannot  chill — 

Grand  hearts  in  her  lone  wand’ ring  race  beat  with  it  still. 


104 


We  sing  the  songs  their  poet  David  sang,  today. 

The  wisdom  of  their  Solomon  will  last  for  aye. 

The  Jew  has  been,  he  is,  he  will  be  to  the  end 
A living  monument  of  power.  Truth  to  defend. 

Hath  God  cast  off  his  chosen  ones  whom  He  foreknew? 
’Twas  through  their  fall  salvation  came  to  me  and  you. 

Now  if  their  falling  be  the  riches  of  us  all 
Their  reconciling  must  be  great  as  was  their  fall. 

Be  not  high-minded  Gentile  peoples.  Wait  and  fear. 

The  end  of  thy  long  dispensation  is  full  near. 

Be  not  too  overwise  in  your  conceit;  this  know: 

All  Israel  shall  be  saved,  for  it  is  written  so. 

Thou  bearest  not  the  root,  the  root  it  is  bears  thee. 

Thou  art  the  wild  branch  grafted  on  the  olive  tree. 

It  was  through  unbelief  the  Jewish  fathers  fell; 

Beware!  lest  thou  through  unbelief  shall  fall  as  well. 

It  is  not  yours  to  judge  who  only  know  in  part; 

Leave  that  in  His  wise  hands  who  reads  man’s  mind  and  heart. 
For  his  mistakes  and  doubts  and  sins  bear  him  no  ill; 

The  Fatherhood  of  God  abides — Christ  loves  him  still. 

The  outward  circumcision  is  a type  of  race ; 

There  is  a circumcision  wrought  in  hearts  by  grace. 

He  who  despises  one  and  scorns  the  other,  too. 

Seals  his  own  destiny  when  he  condemns  the  Jew. 

— Bernie  Babcock. 


105 


Evening  in  the  Barn-yard. 


WHEN  MY  SHIP  COMES  IN 


I am  watching — yes,  I’m  watching 
For  the  first  grey  glint  of  dawn 
When  the  dark  of  night  has  vanished 
And  the  moon  and  stars  are  gone; 

I am  watching — hoping — waiting 
For  the  morrow  to  begin — 

For  the  golden-hued  tomorrow 
When  my  ship  comes  sailing  in. 

Many  weary  years  I’ve  waited — 

Years  forever  dead  and  gone — 

Many  long  and  lonely  watches 
Have  I spent  at  night — alone; 

Still  undaunted  I am  waiting 
Courage,  O my  soul  within! 

Joy,  sweet  joy,  will  crown  the  morrow 
When  my  ship  comes  sailing  in. 

Why  has  it  thus  been  belated; 

Why  this  waiting  of  long  years; 

Why  these  lonesome  night-time  watches 
Hallowed  oft  by  fears  and  tears? 

Answer,  O ye  fates!  No  answer 
Breaks  the  silence  vast  and  grim 
Yet  the  meaning  I shall  fathom 
When  my  ship  comes  sailing  in. 

Fo!  Behold  the  gray  dawn  peeping 
Calmly  o’er  the  eastern  hills 
Birds  their  tender  carols  chirping 
All  my  soul  with  gladness  fills. 

And  I fancy,  as  with  laughing 
I behold  the  light  yet  dim 
I can  see  the  white  sails  gleaming 
Of  my  ship  that’s  coming  in! 

— Sidney  Warren  Mase. 


107 


108 


Back  Once  More  in  the  Long  Ago.” 


RETROSPECTION 


Alone  am  I on  the  old  creek  bank. 
My  cork  on  the  water  lying, 

A gnat  is  near  with  body  lank, 

A snake  on  a log  is  drying. 

Not  far  away  a croaking  frog 
Its  frightful  bass  is  airing; 

The  snake  glides  off  the  sunny  log 
To  seize  a minnow  daring. 

A fish  plays  with  the  hook  below. 

The  bobbing  cork  is  telling. 

Yet  lazily  I let  it  go 

And  dream  in  thoughts  indwelling. 

I am  back  once  more  in  the  long  ago. 
When  life  was  not  so  fleeting. 

And  everything  had  a ruddy  glow. 

As  my  heart  with  hope  was  beating. 

I knew  no  place  in  all  the  world 
Too  high  for  my  aspiring: 

The  darts  I had  were  to  be  hurled 
Before  a throng  admiring. 

But,  somehow,  now  it  seems  that  I, 

In  retrospect  reviewing. 

Can  see  those  arrows  passing  by 
The  goal  to  my  undoing. 

Perhaps  I aimed  too  very  high. 

My  talent  undiscerning — 

We  fail,  nor  know  the  reason  why 
Ambition  dulls  its  yearning. 


109 


Yet,  who  would  live  his  life  again 
If  shorn  of  grand  successes. 

And  touched  with  more  of  grief  and  pain 
Than  softened  with  caresses. 

I wind  my  silken  line  once  more, 

The  baitless  hook  appearing; 

The  bullfrog  croaks  along  the  shore — 

The  gloom  of  night  is  nearing. 

— O.  C.  Ludwig. 


3d 

SHOW  YOUR  COLORS 

I saw  a flower  lie 

All  crushed  and  withered  in  the  dusty  street 
And  as  I passed  it  by 
Its  colors  smiled  up  at  me  ere  my  feet 
Had  trampled  on  it — faded  flower  so  sweet! 

And  then  I wondered  why 
Our  colors  we  so  often  fail  to  show 
When  we  are  overcome 
By  some  sad  burden  and  lie  in  the  dust, 
Perhaps  it  has  been  some 
Unfriendly  hand  has  cast  us  there,  but  we  must 
Like  the  cast-off  flower  dumb. 

Smile  up  at  those  above  from  heart  of  trust. 

And  let  our  colors  show. 


— Athalia  L.  ].  Irwin. 


no 


I SHOULD  BE  SATISFIED 


I should  be  satisfied 
In  love  to  evermore  abide, 

If  thro’  each  turn  of  time  and  tide. 

Thro’  night  and  day,  thro’  month  and  year. 

Thro’  tempest’s  frown,  and  sunlight’s  cheer, 

If  there  were  one  who  loved  me  true. 

Whose  love  would  last  my  whole  life  through — 

I should  be  satisfied 

I should  be  satisfied 
If,  in  the  world’s  vast  human  throng 
There  were  but  one,  both  staunch  and  strong. 

Who  knew  not  of  the  meaning  “change,” 

Whose  heart  naught  earthly  could  estrange. 

Whose  love  could  never  grow  the  less 
But  e’er  increase  in  constantness — 

I should  be  satisfied 

I should  be  satisfied 

To  bear  of  life’s  poor,  petty  care 
E’en  more,  if  need  be,  than  my  share; 

To  drink  of  sorrow’s  dregs  both  deep 
And  long,  and  bitter  tears  to  weep, 

If,  when  the  slow,  sad  years  were  through 
One  heart  were  still  unchanged  and  true — 

I should  be  satisfied. 

I should  be  satisfied 

If  life,  with  all  its  dread  and  doubt — 

Its  sometimes  dreams — were  blotted  out. 

If,  when  Death’s  shadows  draw  around 
Close  by  me,  one  great  Love  were  found; 

Could  he  then  come,  for  whom  I pray. 

For  whom  my  soul  has  longed  alway — 

Then — I should  be  satisfied. 

— Josie  Frazee  Cappleman. 


111 


“Mark  Where  Some  Rough  Plain  Cotter  Dwells.” 


Rayburn. 


112 


ARKANSAS 


I cannot  tell  what  makes  me  pine 
For  those  dear  native  hills  of  mine; 

Nor  can  I tell  why  clearer  gleams 
The  water  of  my  mountain  streams. 

Nor  why  the  earth  and  sky  and  air 
Seems  kindlier  there  than  anywhere. 

It  must  be  that  by  Nature’s  law 
They  all  belong  in  Arkansas. 

Somehow  the  twilight’s  restful  hour 
Is  fullest  there  of  soothing  power. 

And  from  the  day’s  soft  afterglow, 

Heaven  can’t  be  very  far,  I know. 

And  when  the  moon  beams  over  all 
It  seems  that  I,  from  joy  of  soul. 

Can  almost  reach  and  touch  the  hem 
Of  One  who  walked  in  Bethlehem. 

Far  out  across  the  lordiy  sweep. 

Where  blue  hills  in  the  moonlight  sleep, 

A twinkling  light  or  tinkling  bells 

Mark  where  some  rough,  plain  cotter  dwells. 

Knock  at  his  door  for  rest  or  board. 

He  meets  you  like  a manor  lord. 

Feast  with  him  once  and  you  may  boast 
You  sat  down  with  a princely  host. 

Good  faith’s  a creed  and  love’s  a law 
In  every  home  in  Arkansas. 

I love  to  sit  there  on  the  hill. 

When  all  the  lights  go  out  and  still. 

Yes  stiller  than  a tired  breast. 

Soothed  into  peace  and  perfect  rest, 

The  world,  a disillusioned  waste, 

Fills  all  my  soul  with  visions  vast. 

And  I climb  up  in  Spirit  land. 

Among  the  stars,  and  understand. 

Why  every  fleeting  breath  I draw. 

Seems  sweetest  here  in  Arkansas. 

— George  L.  Stockard . 


113 


a.  O 


114 


ARKANSAS  RICE  FIELD. 


THE  SUN-CARESSED  PRAIRIES  OF  ARKANSAS 


From  a line  on  the  east 
To  a line  on  the  west. 

Where  the  green  of  the  field 
Meets  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
Stretching  boundless  and  free 
As  the  breast  of  the  sea 
The  sun-caressed  prairies 

Of  Arkansas  lie. 

Here  acre  bounds  acre 
In  rich  store  of  treasure; 

Here  the  grain  and  the  grass 
In  luxuriance  vie; 

Here  the  billowing  rice. 

For  man’s  toil  pays  the  price 
Where  the  sun-caressed  prairies 
Of  Arkansas  lie. 

The  meadow  lark’s  song 
And  the  spring  blossom’s  grace 
Make  a poem  delighting 
The  ear  and  the  eye; 

But  this  poem’s  meaning 
Proves  best  in  the  gleaning — 
Where  the  sun-caressed  prairies 
Of  Arkansas  lie. 


— Bernie  Babcock • 


Q 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A YOUNG  LADY 


She  sleeps  in  her  beauty,  a rose  of  the  morning. 

That  was  plucked  from  its  stem  as  it  burst  into  bloom ; 
The  reaper  has  passed,  and  our  suppliance  scorning. 
Has  borne  her  away  to  the  cold,  hollow  tomb. 

So  young  and  so  beautiful  thus  to  be  taken, 

And  torn  from  the  arms  that  were  stretched  out  in  vain. 
Oh  surely  she  slumbers — she  yet  will  awaken. 

And  her  accents  so  gentle  will  cheer  us  again. 

Full  many  a weed  in  the  garden  was  growing; 

Death  passed  them  unheeded,  and  sought  out  the  rose ; 

The  charms  of  her  grace  and  her  loveliness  knowing, 
He  lured  her  away  to  his  land  of  repose. 

To  a land  where  the  poppies  are  blooming  forever, 

Where  the  music  is  low  as  the  sigh  of  the  breeze. 
Where  the  sound  of  the  wailing  of  sorrow  can  never 
Her  slumbers  disturb  ’neath  the  murmuring  trees. 

A queen  in  the  dance,  she  appeared  but  a beauty, 

A butterfly  courting  the  rays  of  the  sun; 

But  strong  in  her  soul  was  the  sadness  of  duty. 

The  will  to  endure  till  the  labor  was  done. 

Now  fold  her  hands  tenderly  over  her  bosom. 

Compose  her  limbs  gently  for  death’s  lasting  sleep. 

Fair  rose  of  the  morning  cut  down  in  her  blossom, 

She  seemeth  to  rest  while  we  linger  and  weep. 

No  longer  in  sickness  and  sorrow  to  languish. 

Her  beautiful  body  unracked  by  a pain. 

She  reposes  at  length  from  her  long  bitter  anguish; 

She  passes  away  and  we  seek  her  in  vain. 


ii<> 


Gently  and  lovingly  now  we  must  carry 
Her  forth  to  her  narrow  abode  in  the  earth, 

And  there  by  the  brink  of  the  grave  we  may  tarry 
Lamenting  the  loss  of  such  beauty  and  worth. 


While  we  sing  in  her  praise  in  the  saddest  of  numbers, 
Overcome  by  a sorrow  too  bitter  to  bear. 

Let  us  cover  with  roses  the  spot  where  she  slumbers. 

The  sweet  to  the  sweet  and  the  fair  to  the  fair. 

— George  B.  Rose. 


I CHOOSE  YOU 

The  world  is  a wide  one  that  holds  you  and  me, 

And  peopled  with  folks  false  and  true 
That  charm  many  hearts  as  they  come  and  they  go, 

But  I choose  you. 

There  are  women  with  hair  like  spun  gold  in  the  sun, 

And  eyes  of  forget-me-not  blue — ; 

There  are  women  with  dimples  and  sunniest  smiles. 

But  I choose  you. 

There  are  queens  with  dark  tresses  like  ravens  black  wings. 
With  cheeks  soft  as  buds  kissed  with  dew; 

With  lips  like  red  cherries  and  throat  like  a swan. 

But  I choose  you. 

There  are  women  bewitching,  entrancing  and  gay. 

Fair  types  of  the  old  and  the  new — ; 

There  are  women  with  fortunes — some  few  with  careers — 

But  I choose  you. 

I choose  you,  dear  heart,  for  I love  only  you. 

And  love  lends  the  tint  to  man’s  view; 

So  in  all  the  vast  throng  you  are  fairest  to  me 
And  I choose  you. 

— Bernie  Babcocl p. 


117 


Wi  653 


A SHADOW  STUDY. 


Harris. 


IIS 


A PRAYER 


My  Father!  while  I cannot  see 
For  blinding  tears, 

I take  the  Hand  which  leadeth  me 
Through  all  the  years. 

In  love  Thou  hast  the  jewels  loaned 
For  me  to  keep, 

And  when  the  Master  asks  His  own 
I should  not  weep. 

But  human  strength,  oh  Lord,  is  weak; 

We  are  but  dust, 

And  prone  to  fall  ; help  me  I pray 
Always  to  trust! 

So  when  through  fear  and  dread  I shrink 
To  take  the  cup 

Which  Thou  in  wisdom  for  me  planned, 

Lift  Thou  me  up! 

And  let  me  see  by  faith’s  clear  eye 
To  that  fair  land, 

Where  safe  my  treasures  all  are  kept 
By  Thine  own  hand. 

— Anne  Bachman  Hyde. 


119 


120 


ILLUSIONS— ON  AN  ARKANSAS  BAYOU. 


ON  GLEYRE’S  PICTURE  OF  THE  “LOST  ILLUSIONS” 

I sit  beside  the  silent  sea. 

And  watch  my  hopes  that  fade  away. 

Those  dreams  of  youth  so  dear  to  me, 

Departing  with  the  dying  day. 

They  sail  way,  the  seraph  band. 

And  leave  me  on  this  desert  strand; 

They  follow  now  the  waning  light, 

While  round  me  close  the  shades  of  night. 

The  gentle  breezes  fill  their  sail, 

They  float  away  to  some  fair  shore 
Where  youth  attends  in  flowery  vale, 

And  leave  me  here  forevermore. 

All,  all  depart.  Young  Love  is  flown 
Whom  once  I cherished  as  mine  own, 

Whose  sacred  flame  illumed  my  breast, 

Awakening  divine  unrest. 

The  dream  of  Glory  too,  is  past. 

For  me  is  not  the  laurel  crown; 

For  me  is  not  the  trumpet  blast 

Of  fame,  loud  voicing  my  renown. 

The  holy  Faith  that  charmed  my  youth, 

Revealing  the  eternal  truth, 

And  lifting  me  to  higher  spheres, 

That,  too,  is  gone  with  lengthening  years. 

And  Pleasure  with  her  smiling  face 
No  longer  stretches  out  her  arms, 

No  more  allures  to  her  embrace, 

No  more  displays  her  wanton  charms. 

No  more  the  joyous  band  advance. 

And  beckon  me  to  join  the  dance, 

While  Music’s  soft,  voluptuous  strain 
Throws  round  the  soul  its  magic  chain. 


121 


The  visions  of  my  youth  are  gone. 

The  night  is  deepening  o’er  the  sea, 

That  awful  night  without  a dawn 
Now  closes  slowly  over  me. 

Now  slowly  hence  those  visions  go. 

My  heart  is  bowed  with  weight  of  woe; 

I watch  the  seraph  forms  depart; 

Despair  is  gnawing  at  my  heart. 

Illusions  of  my  youth  they  were. 

And  with  my  youth  they  leave  me  now; 

In  vain  I would  the  hour  defer — 

Time’s  mark  they  see  upon  my  brow. 

And  so,  adieu,  ye  heavenly  dreams! 

Ye  follow  now  the  sun’s  last  beams; 

In  vain  I stretch  my  arms  to  you, — 

Forever  now,  adieu,  adieu! 

— George  B.  Rose. 

& 


SONNET 


What  can  a woman  do  with  her  weak  hands 
So  often  empty?  What  gift  can  she  bring 
Worthy  the  giving?  What  song  can  she  sing 
To  thrill  some  heart  that  silent  waiting  stands. 

Or  nerve  some  hand  for  toil,  till  barren  lands 
In  green  and  bloom  of  perfect  beauty  spring; 
Or  take  from  wan  despair  the  hidden  sting. 
And  braid  life’s  threads  in  many  shining  strands? 


What  can  a woman  do?  Woman  can  bear 
Life’s  sorrows  bravely.  She  can  ease  the  load 
That  bows  her  neighbor.  Proudly,  meekly,  share 
Her  husband’s  honors.  Make  home’s  dear  abode 
A palace  beautiful.  A safe  retreat, 

Which  Love  shall  seek,  with  eager,  hurrying  feet. 


— Mrs.  S.  R.  Allen. 


122 


NEW  STATE  CAPITOL 

Construction  on  this  building  was  begun  on  July  4,  1899.  U hen 
completed  it  will  have  cost  several  million  dollars  and  will  be 
one  of  the  handsomest  State  Capitols  in  the  South 

‘ 

. S 


The-  visions  of  my  youth  are  gone, 

YV  night  is  deepening  o’er  the  sea, 

. 

Now  closes  slowly  over  me. 

Now  slowly  hence  those  visions  go. 

My  heart  is  bowed  with  weight  of  woe-; 
I watch  the  seraph  forms  depart; 
■Despair  is  gnawing  at  my  heart. 


Illusions  of  my  youth  they  were, 

And  with  my  youth  they  leave  me  now; 
In  I would  the  hour  defer— 

Time  A mark  they  see  upon  my  brow. 

And  so,  adieu,  ye  heavenly  dreams! 

Ye  follow  now  the  sun’s  last  beams; 

In  vain  I - -v.^  to  : on 

JOTHAO  3TAT8  W3V1 


rorever  now,  adieu,  acueu 


— George  B.  Rose. 


asdW  .998  I > ylul  no  nugaa  8BW  gniblind  airlt  no  noitoinJanoD 
sd  Hiw  bflfi  gffillob  noillim  Ifiisvoe  Jeod  ovjsH  lliw  ji  botolqmoD 
rllno8  oHt  ni  aloJiqisD  fgdmosbnnd  aril  fo  ano 


What  can  a woman  do  with  her  weak  hands 
So  often  empty  ? What  gift  can  she  bring 
Worthy  the  giving?  What  song  can  she  sing 
To  thrill  some  heart  that  silent  waiting  stands, 

O:  nerve  some  hand  for  toil,  till  barren  lands 
h green  and  bloom  of  perfect  beauty  spring; 
Or  take  horn  w.n  despair  the  hidden  sting. 
And  braid  T thread?  in  many  shining  strands? 


What  re.  woman  do?  Woman  can  bear 
LA  A >.'*?: rows  bravely.  She  can  ease  the-  load 
1 hot  bows  her  neighbor.  Proudly,  meekly,  share 
Her  husband’s  honors.  Make  home’s  dear  abode 
A.  palace  beautiful  A safe  retreat. 

Which  Love  Tali  seek,  with  eager,  hurrying  feet. 

—Mrs.  S.  JR.  Allen. 


ARKANSAS  HYMN 


My  Arkansas,  of  thee, 

Home  of  the  brave  and  free. 

Of  thee  I sing: 

Land  where  our  fathers  fell. 

Land  where  true  patriots  dwell, 

From  every  height  and  dell 
Let  freedom  ring. 

My  own  dear  Arkansas, 

Land  of  impartial  law. 

Thy  name  is  sweet: 

I love  thy  crested  hills, 

Deep  vales  and  laughing  rills, — 

My  soul  with  rapture  fills, 

As  thee  I greet. 

Thy  anthems  ring  sincere, 

Thy  lovers  far  and  near 

Raise  freedom’s  song: 

Let  slumbering  rocks  awake; 

Let  trees  their  banners  shake; 

Let  nature  all  partake; — 

Thy  praise  prolong. 

O God,  our  fathers’  guide. 

Cast  not  their  sons  aside, 

’Though  they  be  dust ; 

Hold  with  thy  mighty  hand 
Those  who  as  suppliants  stand; 

Fail  not  to  bless  thy  land, — 

In  Thee  we  trust. 

—A.  C.  Millar. 


123 


;rS*;  ■ ™ 

YOUNG  MADONNA. 


Rayburn. 


124 


THE  DEAD  CHILD 


The  young  leaf  lives  in  Spring  its  little  hour. 

And  falleth  from  the  limb — -who  knoweth  why? 

The  fair  young  bud  blooms  not  into  a flower, 

But  sickening  droops  and  hasteneth  to  die. 

Who  knoweth  why? 

Our  Father  knows,  from  whom  the  bud  and  leaf 

Received  their  life,  so  beautiful  and  brief. 

Those  loved  by  us, — the  young,  fair,  innocent, — 

When  like  your  dear  ones  they  have  grown  more  dear 

For  but  a little  season  to  us  lent, 

He  calleth  home,  letting  us  live  on  here — 

Who  knoweth  why? 

They  in  the  early  morning  of  Life’s  day 

Do  fade  and  fade,  while  we  grow  old  and  gray. 

Our  Father  knows.  He  knew  they  did  not  need 
Life’s  discipline  and  sorrow’s  chastening  pain 

To  make  them  fit  for  Heaven,  and  early  freed 
These  pure  white  souls  to  Him  returned  again 
For  us  to  intercede. 

Thus  we,  amid  Life’s  sorrows,  toils  and  cares, 

Have  entertained  His  angels  unawares. 

— Albert  Pike. 


125 


a o 


ON  THE  BAY  OF  NAPLES 


By  Naples’  verdant  shore  I sit 
And  gaze  upon  the  purple  sea. 

Where  back  and  forth  the  vessels  flit 
As  white  as  sea-gulls  and  as  free. 

Beneath  the  sun’s  caressing  rays 

The  wavelets  bright  as  diamonds  flash, 
And  dimpling  the  indented  bays 

They  laugh  to  him  with  playful  splash. 

Vesuvius  rises  over  there. 

His  crown  of  smoke  upon  his  brow. 

And  lifts  in  the  enchanted  air 

His  perfect  cone,  so  peaceful  now. 

And  yonder,  o’er  the  sparkling  waves 
Lies  Capri’s  island  of  delight, 

Within  whose  blue  and  verdant  caves 
Strange  heavenly  visions  greet  the  sight. 

And  cities  gem  the  curving  shore, 

Their  towers  reflected  in  the  brine. 

With  names  of  note  in  classic  lore, 

Round  which  the  dreams  of  fancy  twine. 

The  land  it  is  of  rest  and  calm. 

Where  all  of  nature  pants  for  love, 

Where  ’neath  the  foliage  of  the  palm 
We  hear  the  cooing  of  the  dove. 

In  yonder  grotto  sirens  dwelt, 

Their  bosoms  filled  with  passion’s  fire, 
Who  chanted  strains  that  seemed  to  melt 
Into  a sigh  of  fond  desire. 


120 


With  joys  beyond  all  human  sense 

Their  lovers  perished  ’neath  their  kiss. 

But,  dying,  felt  a pang  intense 
Of  rapture  passing  earthly  bliss. 

And  here  upon  the  pearly  sand 

The  sea-nymphs  danced  beneath  the  moon, 

Or  sported  with  the  triton  band, 

While  satyrs  piped  a pleasing  tune. 

They  now  are  gone,  but  still  we  feel 
Their  spirits  haunt  this  golden  shore; 

Unwonted  languors  o’er  us  steal, 

Delicious,  soft,  unknown  before. 

The  very  air  is  amorous. 

And  fans  the  cheek  with  mild  caress, 

And  slowly  passing,  whispers  us 
Of  love’s  divinely  sweet  distress. 

Of  love  the  passing  boatmen  sing. 

With  love  the  palm  tree  nods  to  palm, 

Of  love  the  waves  are  murmuring, 

Love  lends  the  flowers  a richer  balm. 

Oh ! do  not  wake  me  from  this  dream, 

Oh!  do  not  call  my  thoughts  away; 

I would  forsake  life’s  troubled  stream, 

And  linger  here  and  dream  for  aye. 

— George  B.  Rose. 


127 


“This  Is  the  Beautiful  Child-Heart  Land.” 


Lange. 


las 


CHILD-HEART  LAND 


Where — where  is  the  beautiful  Child-heart  Land — 

Where  the  love  songs  blend  in  a paean  grand; 

Where  the  gilded  courts  of  velvety  bliss 
All  melt  in  the  dream  of  a mother’s  kiss: 

Where  the  sickening  din  of  a city’s  streets 
Are  dulled  in  the  fragrant  forest’s  sweets? 

Far,  far  from  the  glamour  of  heartless  gain 
And  far  from  the  fever  and  the  pain — 

Where  the  gardens  are  watered  by  Jesus’  hand — 

Is  it  there — the  wonderful  Child-heart  Land? 

Sad  heart,  ’tis  a phantom — this  Child-heart  Land 
Of  your  dreams,  lying  far  o’er  a spirit-strand! 

What  matter  the  thousand  leagues  that  lie 
’Twixt  the  Realm  of  Rest  and  the  worlds  that  die? 

Here — here  in  the  restless  depths  of  earth 
Is  the  heaven  of  love  and  priceless  worth! 

The  angels  all  from  the  love-heights  sent 
Are  singing  the  songs  of  the  Sentiment, 

And  the  smiles  are  thrones  by  the  warm  winds  fanned — 

This — this  is  the  beautiful  Child-heart  Land! 

— T.  Elmore  Luce p. 


129 


“He’s  Good  Enough  to  Eat.” 


Rayburn. 


ISO 


DADDY’S  LITTLE  MENAGERIE 


A little  fellow,  four  years  old. 

Played  oft  about  the  floor. 

Some  days  he  was  a lion  bold 
And  made  an  awful  roar; 

His  little  brothers  and  his  Sis 
Would  stand  around  in  awe. 

And  look  right  scared  when  he  would  growl 
And  shake  his  mane,  and  paw. 

The  next  day  he  would  be  a bear 
And  lope  right  through  the  trees, 

Or  on  his  hind  legs  he  would  rear, 

Then  walk  on  hands  and  knees, 

And  hug  the  other  children  hard. 

And  give  a fearful  growl. 

And  crawl  around  the  grassy  yard 
And  shake  his  head  and  scowl. 

Then  sometimes  he  would  be  a dog 
And  bark  and  snarl  and  bite 
And  scamper  over  all  the  room 
And  yelp  with  mad  delight; 

Sometimes,  again,  he’d  be  a horse 
And  gallop  ’round  and  trot. 

And  then  he’d  neigh  and  kick  his  heels 
And  get  right  red  and  hot. 

His  Mamma  often  kissed  this  bear, 

And  she  would  kiss  the  horse. 

And  kiss  the  dog  and  lion,  too, 

Without  the  least  remorse; 

And  she  would  say:  “My  little  man 
Is  very  dear  and  sweet. 

And  whether  he  is  bear  or  horse 
He’s  good  enough  to  eat.” 

— O.  C.  Ludwig. 


131 


TWO  COURIERS 


In  day  long  gone,  with  hope  aglow, 

I stood  beside  a plain  one  day: 

Where  it  began  I did  not  know, 

Nor  where  its  farthest  borders  lay, 

And  yet  I knew  both  pain  and  strife 
Were  on  this  plain — for  this  was  Life. 

Two  paths  led  out  from  which  to  choose 
The  end  of  neither  could  I see; 

And  while  I thought  which  path  to  use, 

Two  couriers  saluted  me. 

And  each  begged  leave  to  take  my  hand, 
And  guide  me  through  the  unknown  land. 

The  one  was  graceful,  gay  and  fair. 

His  words  dropped  from  a silv’ry  tongue; 
The  sunshine  glistened  in  his  hair, 

A ’broidered  robe  was  round  him  flung. 
He  said:  “If  thou  would’st  happy  be, 

Take  my  hand,  child,  and  come  with  me. 

“My  path  is  free  from  pain  and  care 
Bright  roses  ’long  its  border  grow, 
Sweet  perfume  hangs  upon  the  air. 

And  many  birds  sing  sweet  and  low. 
Mine  is  the  way  of  wealth  and  fame, 

For  Pleasure  is  thy  servant’s  name.” 

The  second  courier  was  grave: 

His  shapely  limbs  were  lithe  and  long. 
His  step  was  firm,  his  eye  was  brave, 

And  lit  with  purpose  deep  and  strong. 
He  said:  “If  thou  would’st  happy  be. 
Take  my  hand,  child,  and  come  with  me. 


132 


Mine  may  not  be  the  smoothest  way. 

But  I will  make  you  strong  and  true; 

Love  walks  along  my  path  all  day, 

And  Conscience  smiles  the  whole  way  through. 

No  man  yet  ever  grieved  he  came, 

For  Duty  is  thy  servant’s  name.” 

A bit  I paused  to  choose  a hand. 

Two  unknown  paths  before  me  lay: 

But  after  looking  o’er  the  land, 

I turned  to  sturdy  Duty’s  way — 

Then  strange  though  it  may  seem  to  be, 

Right  swiftly  Pleasure  followed  me. 

— Bernie  Babcock. 


34- 

SINCERITY 

Of  all  the  virtues  God  bestows  on  man, 
I often  think  sincerity  the  best; 

For  on  this  virtue  other  hearts  can  rest 
And  feel  secure. 


I know  that  in  His  plan 

Of  things,  God  meant  that  all  should  be  sincere, 

And  by  this  virtue  struggling  souls  uplift. 

Sincerity — ah,  what  a noble  gift! 

To  know  that  when  the  world  seems  dark  and  drear, 

There  is  one  friend  in  whom  you  can  believe; 

Who  would  not  stoop  to  idle  words  of  praise 
Or  foster  hopes  meant  only  to  deceive; 

Whose  every  act  is  earnest  as  God’s  ways. 

And  would  from  pain  and  woe  your  heart  relieve. 

To  feel  that  heaven  is  drawing  very  near 
Is  what  it  means  to  have  a friend  sincere. 

— Alice  France. 


133 


134 


CAMPUS  AND  MAIN  BUILDING,  UNIVERSITY  OF  ARKANSAS. 


SILVER  ANCHORS 


[For  Mrs.  Josie  Frazee  Cappleman  in  memory 
of  her  son.  Cadet  George  Doniphan  Cappleman, 
whose  death  occurred  at  the  University  of  Arkan- 
sas January  20,  1908.  ) 


Tear-storms,  pains,  cutting  gales. 

And  desolation’s  cold 

Fret  life’s  unresting  sea;  yet  through  it  all 
God’s  Silver  Anchors  hold. 

God’s  anchors — those  dear  ones 
Beyond  the  clasp  of  hand 

Or  call  of  voice — who,  following  the  Gleam, 

Have  reached  the  safe  Homeland. 

We,  from  our  storm-tossed  hearts 
Cast  blindly  cords  of  love. 

Weak  threads — yet  cables  in  the  Captain’s  hands 
To  anchor  us  above. 

Until  within  the  Port 

Loved  ones  our  arms  enfold; 

Hope’s  star  will  brood,  while  safe  within  the  depths 
God’s  Silver  Anchors  hold. 

— Bernie  Babcock . 


135 


Miss  Harris. 


136 


HER  LETTER 


There’s  a blossom  of  love  in  the  distant  West, 

A bloom  of  a fairy  Rose; 

I dwell  on  her  Faith  and  it  gives  me  Rest 
From  the  weight  of  all  Life’s  woes. 

The  smile  on  her  lips  and  the  Joy  in  her  heart 
Through  her  words  like  nectar  fall. 

And  touch  into  life — may  it  never  depart — 

A Hope  far  sweeter  than  all. 

A letter  from  Her — let  me  read  it  again — 

Says,  “I  love  you  very  much,” 

And  the  words  sink  deep,  I must  be  vain 
As  I dream  of  the  tender  touch. 

Of  a hand  that  is  soft  as  a rose-leaf’s  blush, 

Of  a lip  like  coral  red. 

Of  a kiss  she  gave  in  the  evening’s  hush 
Ere  she  tripped  to  a tiny  bed. 

O sweet  little  woman,  no  pen  of  mine 
Shall  ever  define  you  “bold,” 

You  are  rich  in  the  grace  of  Angels  divine, 

If  you  are  just  nine  years  old. 

— O.  C.  Ludwig. 


137 


138 


EXPOSITION  PALACE  ARKANSAS  STATE  FAIR. 
At  Beautiful  Oaklawn — Hot  Springs’  $500,000  Park. 


ARKANSAS 


Pines  and  cedars,  cedars  and  pines 
Ferns  and  flowers,  flowers  and  vines. 

Mistletoe  boughs,  masses  of  bloom, 

Tangle  of  wood,  mingled  perfume. 

This  is  the  land  of  a dreamer’s  theme 
De  Leon’s  fount,  Cordova’s  dream, 

A sun  land  full  with  pine  land  balm. 

With  cedar  scent  and  Indian  calm. 

With  purpling  grapes  and  corn  and  wine 
With  mountain  breeze  and  breath  of  brine, 

With  ceaseless  songs  of  summer  birds. 

And  endless  songs  unknown  to  words 
Sweet  violets  blow  and  buttercups  nod. 

And  daisies  dream  with  the  golden  rod 
And  morning  mounts  and  evening  hills 
Are  bathed  in  gold  among  the  rills; 

And  mountain  homes  from  wood  and  knolls 
The  rivers  plant  in  many  roles. 

Pines  and  cedars,  cedars  and  pines, 

A land  of  ferns,  a land  of  vines, 

A land  of  rills  and  liquid  tunes; 

Land  of  poets’  long  afternoons. 

With  molten  hills  and  molten  mounts 
With  lily  breath  and  moonlit  founts, 

These  are  the  hills  of  triple  dreams 
Of  artist  tints  and  poets’  themes, 

Of  triple  thoughts  and  triple  wings 
Of  wildest  harps  and  finest  strings; 

This  is  the  land,  the  fuller  leal 
With  echo  song  and  music  real. 

— D.  S.  Landis. 


139 


140 


“The  Fields,  an’  Woods,  an’  Brooks.’ 


SINCE  WE  STRUCK  ILE. 


We’re  try  in’  ter  be  “high  flyer’’  fokes 
Since  we  raked  in  a pile; 

We  sunk  a well  out  on  our  farm. 

An’  thet  blame  well  struck  ile! 

We’ve  left  ther  farm  an’  moved  ter  town, 
An’  now  we  live  in  style; 

We  ain’t  no  more  ther  common  clay 
We  wuz  when  we  struck  ile! 

Thet  ile  hes  worked  a startlin’  change 
(Er,  mebbe  it’s  ther  style!) 

We’re  all  so  stiff  an’  formal  now 
Thet  none  uv  us  kin  smile! 

Our  cyarpets  an’  our  funitoor 
Hes  sech  ferbiddin’  looks, 

I long  ergin  fer  freedom,  an’ 

Ther  fields,  an’  woods,  an’  brooks! 

Ther  house  we  had  out  on  ther  farm. 

It  wuzn’t  much  fer  style, 

But  beat  this  city  house  we’ve  got 
Erbout  er  country  mile! 

It  wuz  so  sorter  cozy  like. 

An’  not  er  scrumptious  place. 

You  warn’t  afeared  thet  ever  step 
Would  break  some  furrin  vase! 

Uv  course  ther  money  sorter  gives 
Er  proud  an’  upish  feel, 

Espesh’ly  when  we  take  er  spin 
In  our  gasoline  mobile; 

But  these  here  folks  is  tarnal  queer 
Thet  lives  eroun’  this  town. 

They  seem  ter  be  so  hesitant. 

An’  never  neighbor  roun’ ! 


141 


Out  on  ther  farm,  when  Sunday  come 
(Say,  Sunday’s  lonesome  now!) 

Some  one  wuz  alius  droppin’  in. 

At  least  ter  say,  “How’s  how?’’ 

But  peepul  here,  they  pass  us  up — 

It  shore  does  make  me  bile! — 

Don’t  seem  ter  know,  er  care  er  cuss, 

Erbout  us  strikin’  ile! 

I’d  like  to  move  back  to  ther  farm. 

If  ’twuzn’t  for  ther  smell, 

Thet  seems  ter  cling  an’  linger  like 
Eroun’  thet  tarnal  well! 

I wish  thet  I wuz  fur  away 

From  all  this  pomp  an’  style; 

I wish — I wish,  by  Jmg,  I wish — 

We  hadn’t  struck  thet  ile! 

— C.  L.  Fagan. 


A TOAST  TO  THE  ARKANSAW  TRAVELER. 

Here’s  to  the  Traveler — -here  is  to  his  trip, 

Here’s  to  his  bonnie  flag — his  sample  case  and  grip; 

Here  is  to  his  great  big  heart,  his  hand  grasp  warm  and  steady, 

Here  is  to  his  story  and  the  laugh  that’s  always  ready, 

Here  is  to  his  manly  strength  and  power  to  keep  it  clean. 

Here  is  to  his  honor — by  the  world  ofttimes  unseen. 

Here  is  to  his  interest  in  the  folks  who  wear  the  dresses, 

May  he  win  their  lasting  friendship — and  perchance  a few  carresses. 
May  good  luck  attend  his  courtship  and  his  sweetheart  be  his  wife 
And  his  wife  remain  his  sweetheart  every  day  of  a long  life. 


142 


TO  MAN 


Push  forward! 

Let  no  past  however  dark, 

Cast  even  one  faint  shadow  on  thy  Now. 

If  thou  has  been  an  idler,  then  show  how 
A man  can  rise  to  higher  things,  and  mark 
Each  day  with  earnestness,  sincerity 
And  truth. 

Oh,  be  sincere!  Let  every  word 
Come  from  thy  soul’s  high  source. 

Be  firm,  and  gird 

Thy  passions  round  until  they  find  in  thee 
A conqueror. 

Shun  evil  ways  and  men, 

And  keep  thy  thoughts  on  high.  Then  there’s  no  room 
For  doubt  or  sore  discouragement  to  bloom 
Within  thy  mind. 


Aim  high,  and  know  that  when 
God  loved  and  placed  thee  in  His  wondrous  plan, 

He  meant  thee  for  a noble,  manly  man. 

— Alice  France. 


& 

A PRAYER 


I pray  not  for  the  plunder  nor  the  spoil 
Wrenched  from  the  hands  of  those  who  spin  and  toil; 

Nor  for  broad  acres  which  outstretching  lay 
And  court  the  kiss  of  Phoebus’  parting  ray; 

Nor  for  that  beauty  rare  of  form  and  face, 

That  doth  the  image  of  Apollo  grace; 

Nor  fame,  which  mounting  high  on  eagle  wings 
Would  quit  me  of  the  fear  oblivion  brings; 

’Tis  not  for  wisdom  that  my  soul  would  call, 

Wherewith  the  lesser  minds  of  men  to  thrall; 

But,  Lord,  if  from  the  treasure  of  thy  love 
Thou  hearest  prayer,  and  doth  through  mercy  move, 

Hear  thou  me  then,  and  to  Thy  servant  send 
The  pure  and  lasting  love  of  one  true  friend. 

— George  Fleming  Chapline. 


143 


a o 


“That  Deck  the  Blushing  Roses.” 


Harris. 


144 


SING  AND  BE  GLAD 


Sing  while  the  sun  is  shining 
Sing  when  the  stars  arise; 
Sing  as  the  clouds  are  floating 
Across  the  azure  skies. 


Sing  while  the  rain  is  falling 
On  dusty  plains  below; 

Sing  when  the  birds  are  chirping 
Over  the  fields  of  snow. 


o-jA  o~ 


The  sun  makes  warm  some  cold  one 
^^-^\Vho  weeps  along  the  way; 
r< s Thehee*ts  are  full  of  comfort 
To  hearts'subdued  and  grey. 


The  c’ouds  are  but  the  caskets 
Of  jewels  fine  and  rare. 

That  deck  the  blushing  roses 
And  sparkle  fresh  and  fair. 

The  snow  is  but  a mantle 
To  hide  the  ills  of  earth; 

It  sinks  beneath  the  hungry  soil 
To  generate  new  birth. 

So  sing  the  songs  of  gladness 
Repeat  them  once  again 

’Till  all  the  world  responding 
Takes  up  the  sweet  refrain. 

— O.  C.  Ludwig. 


145 


FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

One  of  the  many  boiling  springs  on  the  Government  Reservation, 
Hot  Springs,  Ark. 


146 


HOT  SPRINGS  FIFTY  YEARS  AGO. 


Copyright  1908  by  Mrs.  Bernie  Babcock. 


Visitors  to  the  Valley  of  Vapors  fifty  years  ago  discovered 
springs  of  water  bubbling  in  rocky  basins.  Stagecoach  travel 
was  not  sufficiently  alluring  to  cause  a crush  among  tourists, 
and  there  was  no  Eastman  balls  for  the  latest  display  in 
chignon  effects  and  hoopskirts. 


147 


§>  a 


Half  a century  ago,  Central  Avenue  hospitality  made 
cows  feel  as  much  at  home  as  tourists.  What  is  now  a 
busy  city  thoroughfare,  w^s  then  a stream,  bubbling  its  way 
through  a mountain  gorge. 


14S 


The  beginning  of  Bath  House  Row  was  unpretentious.  The 
ancestry  of  the  present  family  of  palatial  bath  houses  began 
when  wild-cats  screamed  in  the  mountains.  In  those  days 
citizens  might  spit  on  their  own  door  steps  without  fear  of 
being  punished  for  the  offense  by  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment. 


149 


150 


MOORISH  PAVALION  AT  ELECTRIC  PARK,  FORT  SMITH. 


THE  DYING  DRUMMER  OF  FORT  SMITH 


A gay  and  handsome  traveling  man 
Lay  on  a bed  of  pain ; 

All  hope  had  passed,  his  life  went  fast — 

He  ne’er  would  rise  again. 

“Hast  thou  a sweeheart  fair  and  true?’’ 

They  whispered  o’er  his  bed, 

“Whom  thou  wouldst  tell  a last  farewell?” 

The  young  man  softly  said: 

“There’s  sweet  Daisy  back  at  Lexington, 

Dear  Nellie  at  Cordell; 

There’s  Millie  down  at  Norman  town. 

And  Mary  at  Purcell ; 

And  at  Shawnee  there’s  Emma  dear, 

Whom  I must  surely  see. 

And  Anna,  too,  at  Mountain  View — 

Please  bring  them  all  to  me.” 

The  watchers  stared  with  great  surprise, 

And  then  they  said  once  more: 

“Come  tell  us,  pray,  without  delay, 

The  girl  whom  you  adore — 

The  girl  whom  you  have  sworn  to  love. 

And  bring  both  wealth  and  fame ; 

Your  promised  wife,  your  hope  and  life — 

Quick — let  us  hear  her  name?” 

“There’s  Maggie  at  Okmulgee,”  he  gently  said, 

“And  dear  Pearl  at  Muldrow; 

Julia  at  Vinita,  and  Mollie  at  Poteau; 

There’s  sweet  Violet  at  Wagoner, 

And  fair  Maud  at  Muskogee; 

Jennie  at  Sallisaw,  Mable  at  Mulhall — ” 

The  young  man  sighed,  “*Tis  time  to  die — 

I swore  to  wed  them  ALL!” 

The  watchers  tried  to  hear  some  more, 

But  the  spark  of  life  had  fled; 

The  gay  young  drummer  of  Fort  Smith, 

In  his  native  town  was  dead! 

— Hank  Skidrvay. 


151 


A SERENADE 


The  wind  is  whispering  soft  and  low 
O’er  mountain,  hill  and  vale, 

And  on  the  midnight  air  so  still, 

Floats  song  of  nightingale; 

I’m  wating  in  the  moonlight,  dear. 

To  tell  my  love  for  thee, 

Will  thou  not  hear  my  earnest  prayer 
And  answer  give  unto  me? 

The  wind  is  only  a rover 
He  roams  the  wide  world  over, 

He  kisses  each  rose 
Each  flower  that  blows 
But  I love  only  thee — 

Only  thee! 

The  stars  are  shining  bright  and  clear 
Upon  the  silver  sheen 
Of  water  running  rapidly 
To  make  earth’s  valley  green; 

In  rippling  dress  the  wavelets  sing 
To  wake  the  flow’rs  so  gay, 

With  soft  caress  they  tell  of  spring 
Then  laughing  run  away. 

The  stars  and  wavelets  are  rovers 
They  prove  inconstant  lovers 
They  tenderly  greet 
Each  flower  they  meet — 

But  I love  only  thee — 

Only  Thee! 

Mrs.  Mary  Burt  Broods. 


152 


Two  heads  with  but  a single  thought; 

Four  lips — a single  kiss; 

Two  hands  with  one  warm  lingering  squeeze 
For  two  folks — my  what  bliss! 


One  head  with  but  one  wicked  thought, 
One  heart  of  love  bereft; 

No  clasp,  no  kiss,  just  jealous  pain — 
When  one  is  getting  left. 


153 


Kettering. 


154 


FIELD  HANDS. 

“Off  to  the  Thousand  Acre  Patch  When  the  Cotton  Fields  Turn  White.” 


oMCTUlWES 


IF  I HAD  BEEN 


If  I had  been  McCurdy’s  son,  or  even  son-in-law, 

I would  have  had  a mighty  sum  a-workin’  for  my  Pa, 

A writin’  policies  and  things  an’  lookin’  awful  wise, 

While  rakin’  in  the  shekels  from  the  willin’  country  guys. 

I wouldn’t  have  to  chop  no  wood  nor  tote  a dinner  pail ; 

I’d  eat  my  lunch  at  some  swell  club  and  drink  a little  ale; 

I’d  have  some  shrimps  and  deviled-crabs  and  oysters  on  the  side. 
And  turkey  chops  and  tenderloin  my  mouth-pearls  would  divide. 

I’d  cruise  adown  the  asphalt  streets  in  a blood-red  automo 
And  crush  the  life  from  little  kids  and  make  a holy  show; 

No  cops  could  stay  my  brave  machine; 

I’d  scatter  bums  and  drunks. 

And  folks  would  say  as  I flew  by: 

“He’s  worth  a million  plunks.’’ 

If  I was  Old  McCurdy’s  son,  or  even  son-in-law, 

I’d  buy  a new  dress  and  a hat  and  things  like  that  for  Ma; 

My  kids  would  have  some  shiny  shoes,  my  wife  a parasol. 

And  every  little  girl  of  mine  would  have  a brand  new  doll. 

It’s  mighty  sad  fer  me  to  think  in  all  this  life  of  mine. 

I’ve  never  lunched  with  old  man  Mack,  and  never  drunk  no  wine, 

But  think  how  rich  I could  have  been,  the  things  I might  have  saw. 
If  I had  been  McCurdy’s  son,  or  even  son-in-law. 

— O.  C.  Ludwig. 


155 


“Good-Night,  Teddy.” 


Kettering. 


156 


THE  GOOD-BYE  KISS  ON  THE  STAIRS 


I am  thinking  of  the  farewell  kiss 
You  gave  to  me  that  day. 

When  my  heart  was  sad,  and  the  only  bliss 
That  came  to  me,  my  little  miss, 

Lay  sweet  on  my  lips  in  the  same  old  way. 

The  day  was  dark,  and  darker  still 

Were  the  thoughts  in  my  troubled  mind. 

As  my  head  bent  low,  and  the  icy  chill 
Gave  way  to  the  warmth  of  a lover’s  thrill. 

As  your  head  on  my  breast  reclined. 

We  stood  on  the  stairs  with  none  to  see, 

And  our  kisses  were  hot  and  fast; 

And  we  cared  not  much  if  they  saw,  did  we? 

For  they  could  not  last  forever,  you  see, 

And  we  grieve  some  now  that  the  day  is  past. 

I can  see  you  now,  with  your  eyes  of  blue 
A little  moist  from  the  heart’s  dull  pain. 

As  we  clasped  each  other  with  a love  most  true. 

When  we  stood  on  the  stairs — just  me  and  you — 

And  I would  to  God  we  were  there  again. 

— O.  C.  Ludwig. 


157 


SOLITUDE— THE  OZARKS  IN  WINTER. 


WHEN  WE  ARE  GONE 


Time  will  pursue  its  onward  flight, 

Nor  fail  to  sound  the  day  and  night 
When  we  are  gone; 

And  sun  and  moon  in  robes  sublime 
Will  scan  the  sky  in  measured  time 
When  we  are  gone. 

Seasons  as  bright  will  come  and  go 
And  gales,  and  summer  breezes  blow, 
When  we  are  gone; 

And  flow’rs  and  birds  will  throng  the  way 
As  sweet  and  blithe  as  in  our  day 
When  we  are  gone. 

Soon  grief  and  sighs  will  change  to  song. 
And  friends  forget  amid  the  throng 
When  we  are  gone; 

Our  graves  with  grass  and  weeds  o’ergrown 
To  all  alike  will  be  unknown 
When  we  are  gone. 

Though  buried  and  by  all  forgot 
Still  life  or  death  will  be  our  lot 
When  we  are  gone; 

’Tis  wisdom  then  to  pray  and  strive 
To  grasp  the  prize — and  ever  live 
When  we  are  gone. 


— /.  R.  T olbert. 


1 
• Jn) 

An  Arkansas  Fantasy 

1 

Sr 

o In) 

By  J.  BRECKENRIDGE  ELLIS 

g$ 

o In) 

HERE  lived  in  the  State  of  New  York  a little  girl 
who  had  never  traveled  from  her  native  town  because 
her  health  had  always  been  uncertain.  Her  mother 
had  come  from  Arkansas  on  her  honeymoon,  and 
had  remained  in  the  East  with  the  family  of  her 
husband.  There  remained,  however,  stamped  upon 
her  memory,  the  sunny  hills,  the  billowing  cotton- 
fields,  and  the  forests  of  fruit  trees  among  which 
her  youth  had  been  spent.  When  the  snows  lay  for  weeks  upon  the 
ground  and  the  sharp-cutting  wind  crept  through  crevices  at  door  and 
window  in  spite  of  all  one  could  do,  the  mother  would  take  her  delicate 
little  daughter  upon  her  lap  and  tell  her  how  at  that  moment  the  flowers 
were  blooming,  and  the  peach  trees  were  blossoming,  down  in  Arkansas. 

It  became  the  dream  of  the  child’s  life  to  visit  that  heaven-blessed 
land  where  the  light  frosts  do  not  kill  and  where  the  snows  vanish  like 
white  ghosts  at  touch  of  the  warm  earth.  But  in  the  rigorous  climate 
of  the  North,  the  little  one’s  strength  wasted  away,  and  death  came 
before  her  dream  could  be  realized. 

Her  soul  rose  to  that  heavenly  abode  set  apart  for  children  and 
for  those  who  have  become  as  one  of  them.  She  looked  about  her  in 
wonder  at  the  glorious  splendors  of  heaven — its  streets  of  gold,  its  fields 
of  flowers,  its  trees  of  life  and  knowledge.  Too  young  to  understand 
death,  she  thought  she  had  awakened  from  a deep  sleep.  Saint  Peter 
greeted  her  with  an  angelic  smile,  and  said: 

“Do  you  know  where  you  are,  little  one?” 

With  eyes  still  dancing  with  delight  at  the  vision  of  surpassing 
loveliness,  the  child  laughed  with  joy,  and  she  cried  with  confidence, 
“Yes;  this  must  be  Arkansas!” 


160 


iETTY  CENTER  LIBRARY 

NH  111  P61  1908 


rnui 


BKS 


v <|  c -i  Babcock.  Bernie  Smad 

Dir+urpt;  and  noems  of  Arkansas  / 


3 3125  00170  4242 


